Chapter 1: Ghost of Christmas Past
Chapter Text
Early December, 1995
My car slowly inches forward before I tap the brakes again.
“Goddamn it,” I hiss, smacking the steering wheel. “At this rate, I might make it home by next week.”
The New York City bumper-to-bumper traffic glints in the glow of holiday lights strung across the streetlamps, their relentless cheer mocking my misery. For some, Christmas is a time for togetherness and joy. Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men. But for me, it’s a living testament to all that is wrong with this world.
Christmas had become an orgy of excess. I gaze at the giant inflatable Santa bobbing on the roof of a nearby car dealership. Too commercialized. Too over the top. It wasn’t about giving anymore—it was about getting. People constantly trying to one-up each other with gaudy displays, overpriced gifts, and over-the-top parties. And for what? So you could spend ten seconds tearing through wrapping paper only to be disappointed by what’s inside?
Thank God I’d never bothered with kids. Christmas for parents seemed like hell on earth. Dragging brats to department stores, shelling out money for cheap plastic crap they’d forget by New Year’s, and enduring tantrums when Santa didn’t deliver on every insane wish scrawled in crayon on a mile-long list.
And Santa. Don’t even get me started on that whole business.
It had been nearly a year since the courtroom fiasco that had turned the city and the country on its head. A man named Kriss Kringle, claiming to be the real Santa Claus, had taken the stand, battling against Ed Collins, the New York prosecutor with a reputation as sharp as his jawline. I was Ed’s paralegal and had been front and center for the entire hullabaloo.
Neither myself nor Ed hadn’t bought it for a second. Santa Claus wasn’t real, and this Kriss Kringle character was just some old man in a well made suit, a crackpot who’d convinced half the city otherwise. Sure, the judge had ruled in his favor after that miracle of the precocious little girl, Susan Walker, passed him something in the courtroom. It didn’t mean anything.
Did it?
I shake my head, catching myself spiraling down a rabbit hole I sworn to never revisit. Even though Ed lost the case, he ended up softening up in the end that day when the judge declared the man was Kriss Kringle and no harm or foul had been done. The case had been over for a year, yet it still gnawed at me when I let it. I grit my teeth and tighten my fingers on the steering wheel of my BMW 3 Series coupe. No time for sentimentality. No time for wondering if maybe I’d missed something.
The car behind me honks aggressively, startling me out of my thoughts.
“Okay asshole!” I snap, rolling forward half a car length before hitting the brakes again. My eyes flick to the clock on the car’s dashboard. 7:48pm. Another late night at the office, another drive home through holiday hell, crawling through Manhattan’s post Thanksgiving chaos.
I couldn’t even bring myself to hate the holidays anymore. Hate required energy, and these days, I barely had enough of that to scrape myself out of bed in the morning. My flirtation with prescription opioids certainly didn’t help. I’d broken my ankle earlier in the year and had become dependent on the fucking things. The Percocet helped me get through reality, one lonely minute at a time. I glance over at my Nokia cell phone on the passenger seat, half expecting it to ring at any second but I know it won’t. He won’t call.
No, he’s at home with his trophy wife and two perfect children, in their stately brick home outside of the city in the wealthy suburbs, tucked in behind the privacy of high hedges and perfectly groomed shrubs. I’m certain the house smells good, a mixture of fragrant pine and the sugar cookies his wife recently took out of the oven. The man himself probably sits in front of his fireplace, with his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and drinking a glass of brandy while he reviews upcoming case files.
My relationship with Ed Collins is beyond complicated. The 51 year old man is a top dog prosecutor and one who carries a certain sense of gravitas with him wherever he goes. Ed has the kind of presence that turns heads whenever he goes. Years of arguing case after case for the prosecution in the courtroom has given him a confidence that borders on arrogance but never tipped too far. His sharp jawline, aesthetically pleasing low voice, clear blue eyes and his thick head of light brown hair with salt streaks at the temples have made him a star among the city’s legal elite.
And I’m Eden Tyler, his 36 year old paralegal who’s fifteen years his junior and have been with him for the last six years. At first it had been a promising career, fighting tool and nail for the people of New York City and accompanying Ed to court. While I didn’t want the hassle of actually becoming a lawyer and all that it entailed, being a paralegal was the next best thing in my eyes. I’m sharp, driven and incredibly loyal.
To the outside world, Ed Collins and Eden Tyler are the perfect team. Behind closed doors, we are something else entirely.
I hated myself for how it started, for how easily I allowed myself to be drawn into Ed’s orbit. It wasn’t just his charm or the way he carried himself—it was the way that he saw me in a way that no other man had before. Ed treated me like I was more than an employee, more than another cog in the machine. He valued my opinions, trusted my instincts and somewhere along the way, had started seeing me as more than just another face around the office.
We spent a lot of time working together, late nights bleeding into early morning hours where we would be up to our necks in case files. After a while, people thrust into these positions often find themselves at odds with one another or end up opening themselves up to one another. I found myself confiding in Ed about my personal life and he listened without judgment, only offering his opinion when it was warranted. It was only about a year into my career when I realized I was falling for my boss. I told myself that I was crazy, Ed was a married man for God’s sake! There was no way he felt the same way I did. But those lingering glances carried the weight of a man conflicted. It was another two years after that before Ed made the first move.
It was one of those late nights we’d spent at the office, preparing for another case and holed up in the conference room, when Ed gave me a look from across the large table that made my pulse race. He got up from his chair and walked around to my side of the table, simply holding out his hand to me. When I let him take my hand, it all shifted. There weren’t many words exchanged during that first time, just the haphazard discarding of clothing and heavy breathing as Ed and I succumbed to our respective passion.
After that night, things changed. What I thought was a one time mistake, turned into a full time affair. Our secret liaisons usually took place in my Tribeca apartment and occasionally fancy hotels in the city. There were even rare times when Ed made himself available to me the entire weekend, like if his wife and kids were going to Connecticut see her family for a couple of days. Those were the times he’d spend all weekend with me in the city or he’d whisk me off to some quaint bed and breakfast out of town. Those were the times when I felt like I was the only woman in his life. It was addictive to say the least.
It was a preview of the kind of domestic bliss I deserved. Ed was romantic and thoughtful, often spoiling me with trinkets of his affection. Walking hand-in-hand with him through a farmers market in the city or even at some apple orchard in the country, was when I felt most comfortable in my affair with Ed. I’d always found myself drawn to older men and being with Ed was the icing on the cake. I was just happy to get whatever time he could give me.
No woman likes being the other woman but I knew what this was from the beginning. Ed told me he loved me and I halfway believed him. After all, what man would entangle himself in a years long affair with a woman if he didn’t actually love her? As much as it hurt me to admit it, at the end of the day Ed Collins would never come home to me. He’d never choose me over his perfectly polished wife, with her impeccable hair and legs for days. Maybe that’s why Ed went out of his way to spoil me at times because deep down, he knew it too.
Once I finally get to my apartment building and inside of my apartment, I sink into the couch, tossing my briefcase and purse onto the coffee table. I look around my trendy abode, with its exposed brick walls and original wood floors and the quirky bits of decor I have on the walls and on built in shelves. It’s the kind of place that says ”I made it” even if it’s not some penthouse in the Upper East Side.
To the outside world, a woman like me might appear to have it all. I’m young, successful and have the freedom to live my life as I please. But deep down, I want more. I’m tired of living this double life, tired of sneaking around with a married man. It’s already the beginning of December and I haven’t been bothered to get a Christmas tree yet or decorate a single thing, nor buy Ed a present. And why would I? I can’t stand Christmas.
Yet, I find I’m at odds with myself. In one breath, I despise Christmas and everything that comes with it. In the next breath, I wish I had someone to share the holidays with.
I get up from the couch and walk over to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of Riesling. I drink more than I’ll ever care to admit, but it comes with the territory. My job is stressful and being my married boss’s lover is the cherry on top.
The Riesling soothes my nerves halfway through the first glass. By the time I’m polishing off my second glass, my phone rings. I walk over to the corded phone on the wall across from me and pick it up.
“Eden, it’s Ed. We need to talk.” Are the words that greet me on the other end of the line.
No hello, no good evening. Just those four little words that no one ever wants to hear: we need to talk.
“What?”
Ed sighs into the phone and takes a deep breath. “I can’t talk long. I’m calling you from my car phone. My wife knows about us. We can’t do this anymore. It’s over with Eden.”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks although they shouldn’t. Ed and I had been playing with fire for quite sometime and it was only a matter of time before someone got burned. I could ask him questions like ”How?” and ”Why?” but I don’t. It’s eerily quiet and I take another swig of the wine. I knew it was only going to be a matter of time before this happened.
“Did you hear what I said Eden?”
“Yes Ed, I heard you. So that’s it?” I ask.
“We can’t do this anymore. I care about you deeply but you know my situation. This is my wife we’re dealing with here. I can’t afford to lose her.”
“Oh,” I chuckle bitterly. “That’s rich. You can’t afford to lose her? But you certainly didn’t mind throwing your marriage away every time we fucked, right?”
“It’s not like that. What you and I had was—,” Ed protests weakly before being I interrupt him.
“Special?” I cut him off with a humorless laugh. “Save it Ed. I’m not having this conversation tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I’m ready to hang up when Ed’s voice stops me cold.
“I think it’s best if you put in your resignation immediately,” he says calmly. “I’ll write you a letter of recommendation. You won’t have trouble finding another paralegal position.”
Great! So not only am I being dumped, but also canned? Just in time for Christmas too. Unfuckingbelievable!
I stare at the phone in disbelief, fury rising in my chest. “Nice Ed, real nice. How the fuck do you expect me to start over again?”
“Look sweetheart, I’ve got plenty of friends in this city who run private practices. I’m sure I could make a couple of calls and put in a good word. It’s going to be alright,” Ed tries to assure me but it’s too late.
“I’ve worked for you for six years Ed, six fucking years as your little lackey! Don’t bother,” I snap before slamming the phone back into its cradle.
I stare at the phone for a long moment before picking up my glass of wine and finishing the rest of it in one gulp.
“Perfect fucking timing Ed. Merry Christmas to me,” I say out loud.
I pace the length of the kitchen and dig around in a narrow cabinet where I keep things like vitamins and other prescription pills. My bottle of Percocet gleams like a beacon of hope, its little amber bottle practically catching the ambient kitchen lighting and glowing. It’s my safe haven, as sad as it is to admit.
I don’t know how much longer I can convince my doctor that I’ll need another refill. Even after the surgery and physical therapy on my ankle, I’m still not healed. Sure, I can get around just fine but the pain is still there. However I’m convinced the pain is mostly in my head. And now, that pain is in my heart.
I swallow two pills and brace myself against the kitchen counter before the tears start to fall down my cheeks. I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to start over like this. Ed can take his letter of recommendation and shove it up his ass. As the Percocet starts to take effect, I find the edges of my life blurring into one hazy piece. The warmth spreads through my chest and I make my way back over to my couch, closing my eyes.
….
One week later
After that night, I called the only person in my life I could count on, since Ed had bid me farewell. My uncle, Jerrod Tyler, vintner and Christmas tree farm owner. He ran Fox Ridge Vineyards & Tree Farm further upstate, about a 90 minute drive from the city in a small town called Northfield. Uncle Jerrod was my late father’s older brother. I hadn’t seen him in years, not since my father’s untimely death a decade earlier.
He occasionally called me and every Christmas, he and his wife, my aunt Martha, would sent me a check for $300 tucked into a Christmas card. It was a nice gesture and probably too much money for a grown adult who makes a decent living, but I never turned it down. Every year he’d write the same thing in the card:
Whenever you’re ready to get away from the city, come see us. You’re welcome up here anytime.
I’d never taken him up on it but I always cashed that check nonetheless. Aunt Martha was always on the ball too, making sure that sucker was postmarked before Thanksgiving. The card stared at me in my pile of mail on my kitchen table that I hadn’t bothered to go through until that morning after Ed broke things off and fired me.
So I took a hot shower, letting the remnants of the previous evening’s Riesling and Percocet party be cleansed. I got myself dressed and called uncle Jerrod. Asked him if I could come stay for a while. He never asked any questions, just told me he’d be down to pick up my belongings. It took a few days, but I got everything packed up and loaded into uncle Jerrod’s Range Rover and the smaller stuff in my car. The rest I put into a storage unit. I was breaking the lease on my apartment, but my landlord was nice enough to give me half of my security deposit back.
I’ve been staying here for a week. Uncle Jerrod was nice enough to let me stay in the guest house, a small brick ranch style house that he often put visitors up in. I could’ve stayed in the main house with him and aunt Martha, a sweeping brick mansion with enough rooms to house a small colony. But Patrick and Caroline living there made the choice even easier.
Uncle Jerrod and aunt Martha’s perpetual nepo baby son, Patrick, aged 34 and his wife Caroline, aged 28, were the quintessential White Anglo Saxon Protestant (WASP) family. Patrick ran the vineyards with his dad. If running the vineyards meant drinking more of the product than actually producing it, Patrick was the star of the show. Caroline was content to spend that good old Tyler money every chance she got.
You’d think with as much money as they had, Patrick and Caroline would have their own place. But because Patrick was an only child, he never left home except for those four years he spent at Brown University getting his degree in marketing. After college, he was content to move back to the farm and “help” his dad run the family business. Caroline was the daughter of a heart surgeon that he’d met somewhere along the way.
Patrick was a smug prick, through and through. I’d never liked him, even as a child. He was the closest thing I had to a brother, as I was an only child too. My mother left me with my dad when I was only four years old, jetting off to California to pursue an acting career that probably never panned out. We never heard from her again. I barely remember her anymore. My dad raised me the best he could. I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth like Patrick. My dad was a blue collar worker, an airline mechanic who worked long shifts at La Guardia International Airport. And when he tragically died in a car accident when I was 26 years old, I lost the last remaining member of my immediate family.
Patrick always liked to remind everyone else how they were beneath him, including me. His snide comments and scowls never went unnoticed. I’m not sure how Jerrod and Martha managed to raise such a conceited asshole, considering they were kindhearted people in spite of their wealth. The idea of living with him and his puke wife was enough to make me want to vomit, so I was happy to live in the guesthouse when my uncle and aunt offered it up.
I didn’t even get to go back to the prosecutor’s office to collect my things before I left the city. Ed had a courier service box them up and bring them to my apartment the following day after getting canned. The timing to move away was impeccable. My six year career had been reduced to two banker’s boxes and a letter of recommendation from Ed that I’d never bothered to open.
I convinced myself that Northfield would be my fresh start, my reset button. Fuck another career in the city, working for some other law firm that knew who Ed Collins was. Every lawyer in New York City who was someone was connected to Ed. They’d all play golf together at the country club while their wives played tennis and drank mimosas. I couldn’t stand the idea of some other lawyer schmuck asking Ed Collins why I’d left my position in his office. Ed would never admit what really happened and would probably craft some story about how I was burnt out working for the prosecutor’s office and needed to transition to a private law firm. They’d never press him either, but they’d probably find out eventually just why Eden Tyler no longer worked for Ed Collins.
I had enough money to get by for a while. I was the sole beneficiary of my dad’s life insurance policy and inherited his life’s savings, the last which was tied up in stocks and bonds and the occasional quarterly payment I’d receive. A good chunk of the life insurance money went towards my paralegal studies, furnishing my apartment and buying my car outright back in 1991. I bought the BMW about a year into my career of working for the prosecutor’s office, the kind of car I’d always wanted. I thought the fancy Tribeca apartment and Beamer would make me feel complete but they didn’t. If anything, the material possessions made me feel worse.
I wasn’t going to lie around all day at Fox Ridge and drown my sorrows in reserve wine from grapes grown right on the farm, sponging off of the hospitality uncle Jerrod and Martha had offered me. I didn’t mind getting my hands dirty. Uncle Jerrod suggested me helping work the Christmas tree farm, directing customers to the best Douglas Firs and spruce trees their money could buy. I didn’t expect to be paid for whatever work I did and figured me shacking up in the guest house for free was my payment. My uncle had farmhands that helped load up the trees and keep things moving. With the winery in the off season, the Christmas tree farm was the main wrangler of income for Fox Ridge. The tree farm opened up on Black Friday every year and closed on Christmas Eve. There were limited hours during the week but the real crowds came in on the weekends, fresh from the city and suburbs to pick out a Christmas tree.
Uncle Jerrod always saw a way to make money. He’d provide complimentary hot chocolate and fire pits but also sold wine by the bottle to take home. These touristy fucks ate every minute of it up too. Once the holidays were over with, the farmhands tended to the winery in the off season. If you were an employee at Fox Ridge, you never had to worry about running out of work because there was always something to do.
At night is when things got interesting. I’d gotten close with one of the farmhands, Will Hastings, a man around my age who looked like he popped out of the womb wearing flannel. I’d also become friendly with the main housekeeper, Christina Torres. Christina was in her late 20s and had been working for Jerrod and Martha since she was 18. The three of us formed an immediate bond over our disdain of Patrick and his wife Caroline, as well as all of the high-falutin’ types that frequented Fox Ridge.
“Stop bogarting the whiskey,” Will snaps his fingers at me as the three of us hang out in the staff quarters, an old two story farmhouse out on the edge of the property.
I laugh at him and pass him the bottle of Jack Daniels while Christina lights up a joint and takes a beefy inhale.
“Did you see what Caroline was wearing today? The bitch had on a white sweater. I thought you Americans didn’t believe in wearing white after Labor Day?” She inquires in her accent, which sounds partly American mixed with Rosie Perez.
“She’s got a nice rack on her though,” Will muses before he takes a puff of the joint.
I listen to the two chatter. First Will, complaining about Patrick being a dickhead and how someone should teach him a lesson. Then Christina, filling me in on how she often helps Martha cook holiday meals that Martha tries to pass off as her own. Will and Christina must feel comfortable around me, halfway dogging my family but I don’t mind. I always knew Martha was a bit of a put on even if she was nice. I figured she always had secret help in the kitchen while she was content to take the credit. They both know of my disdain for Will and Caroline so I agree with them.
“You’re being awfully quiet tonight Eden. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Will asks me.
I take a deep breath, waving off the joint he’s trying to pass me and reaching for the shared bottle of whiskey instead. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do with my life.”
“I still don’t know why you left the city,” Christina declares. “There ain’t shit to do up here in Fox Ridge.”
It’s been several days since I left New York City in my rear view mirror, but the sting of it still burns. I suppose in time I’ll learn to move on from it but the change of scenery has helped a little.
“It’s complicated. It got to be too much,” I tell her because giving the ”it’s complicated” answer is always a safe bet when someone asks me why I left New York City and my career behind.
“You’re running from something,” Will says, suddenly full of wisdom.
I shoot him a glare but it lacks any real heat. “Who isn’t running from something?”
“That’s true,” Christina says. “But if it were up to me, I would’ve gotten the fuck outta here. Maybe went somewhere warm like Florida.”
“You look like going to Florida. It’s a wonder you were able even to leave the Bronx,” Will teases her.
Christina flips him off and fidgets with her long French braid that she keeps the ends secured in a bun during the day when she’s working. “I’m just saying. Eden’s got too much going for her to be wasting away up here with these rich fucks.”
“Speaking of rich fucks, I wonder who all we’ll get to deal with tomorrow?” Will raises an eyebrow.
Tomorrow is Saturday, December 9th, the busiest day of the week. Christmas is a little more than two weeks away and now is the prime time to secure a good Christmas tree. While I’d spent the week helping customers out that had come in, the weekend is when the real fun begins.
I look at my watch. It’s almost midnight and the tree farm opens at 9am tomorrow.
“I better call it a night,” I yawn. “You two try and stay out of trouble.”
“We’ll try,” Will grins at me. Christina smiles at me and get up from the couch, dragging myself outside to make the short trek back to the guest house.
Tomorrow’s a new day.
….
It’s halfway through Saturday and I’m already tired of customers and Christmas trees. The place has been nonstop busy since we started this morning and with no end in sight. My lunch break amounted to two cigarettes I smoked out back behind the tractor shed and half of a Krispy Kreme donut. So much for sustenance.
Uncle Jerrod’s out front and center, playing the role of the welcoming farm owner and giving folks advice. He’s a natural at this. Will keeps making goofy faces at me when no one’s looking and he’s already let me hit his hidden flask on more than one occasion.
I’ve been ringing customers up, faking a smile as I take their cash and checks. I’ve even managed to sell a few bottles of wine too. One family asked if I would take their picture in front of the tree that they’d chosen, the one that Will had loaded up on top of their Jeep Grand Wagoneer. They look like the all American picture perfect family with their Ralph Lauren catalog smiles and fair skin. They’ve even brought their well behaved Irish setter puppy along for the ride.
As I pass their camera back to them, I hear a familiar voice that causes me to freeze in my tracks.
“Honey! Over here! They’ve got quite the selection!” The deep voice calls out.
I don’t even need to look up to see my ghost of Christmas past. That voice belongs to Ed Collins. And sure enough, there he is, a navy wool overcoat on with a light gray scarf tied around his neck. He looks every part the family man, with his wife by his side and two kids bringing up the rear.
I’d seen their faces enough on Ed’s desk over the years. Heard him occasionally call her on the phone while we were in his office and even those times he’d call her from his car phone when he was with me, making up some story about how he was working late. I’d sit there in the passenger seat of his Lexus sedan, slumped down and a scowl on my face while he placated her squawking on the other end of the line.
Seeing the wife and kids in person is a different story. His son was towheaded with eyes as blue as Ed’s. Their daughter looked more like her mother, auburn curls spilling out from underneath of a girly pink knitted toboggan. I feel everything I’ve been forced to deal with (and blot out with thanks to the booze and pills) come to a head as I stand there, watching the Collins Family select their perfect Christmas tree.
“Good afternoon folks!” My Uncle Jerrod walks over to greet them, shaking hands with Ed. “You in the market for a Christmas tree?”
“We sure are,” Ed smiles warmly at him. “Heard this is one of the best places to pick one out. Figured we’d make a day of it from the city and check out the town.”
“Northfield is a great place to visit. Fox Ridge Farm is an even better place to get a tree,” Jerrod says to charm them.
“Well we certainly plan on getting a tree. Isn’t that right children?” Ed’s wife says, placing one hand on each shoulder of her son and daughter.
It dawns on me after all of those years for working for Ed, I didn’t even know his wife and kids names. I guess I never bothered to ask or give a shit. The affair was always easier for me to swallow when I could compartmentalize Ed from his actual family. In my mind, that version of Ed that I spent three years screwing around with didn’t really exist. The real Ed stands before me, a good thirty feet away and oblivious to my presence.
I don’t know how long I stand there watching them like an idiot. Too afraid to move, too afraid to open my mouth. What am I going to do when I have to be face to face with them? I better find someone else to wait on them once they select their tree.
I hear footsteps behind me and a nudge in my side. “You ok Eden? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
I turn to see Will standing next to me, a concerned look on his face as he quickly passes me his flask. I slip it in my coat pocket and shake my head.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You’ve been staring at those people for the last five minutes. You know them?” Will asks.
“Nope, never seen them,” I lie. “Would you mind watching the front for like ten minutes? I need to use the bathroom and take a smoke break.”
Will shakes his head and I wander off, out of sight and out of mind. I don’t need to use the bathroom but my shaky hands do need a cigarette and I dig into my coat pocket for my pack of Marlboro Lights and lighter. I find solace after three long drags on the cigarette and a sip of the vodka in Will’s flask. I take my sweet ass time walking back to where all the Christmas trees are, just in time to see Will taking cash from Ed.
Thank fuck.
“Hey Eden! There you are!” My uncle’s voice booms out and I look to see him hoisting Ed’s newly purchased Christmas tree on top of the family ride, a Mercedes Benz station wagon.
Upon hearing my name, Ed looks in my direction and now he sees his own ghost of Christmas past. I watch as he swallows and his pale eyes grow wide as he’s shoving change into his coat pocket.
“Come here, will you?” Jerrod asks me.
I curse under my breath and slowly make my way over to where my uncle is and where Ed’s got a piece of rope to help secure the Christmas tree to his car. Ed’s wife barely glances my way as she slips into the passenger seat and the kids are climbing into the backseat.
“Eden, this nice fella here’s an attorney back in the city. I told him I had a niece who was a paralegal,” Jerrod gestures as he helps Ed with the rope.
“Nice to meet you miss,” Ed sticks his gloved hand out at me.
I don’t return the handshake, my hands balled up in fists in each coat pocket but I give him a fake closed mouth smile, gritting my teeth so hard that they just might snap into a hundred pieces.
If Ed’s going to act like he doesn’t know me, better believe I’m going to give him the same treatment. Why would he be honest anyway? He wants to spare himself the embarrassment. My uncle knew I worked for the prosecutor’s office but didn’t know what prosecutor I worked for, nor did Ed tell him he prosecutor for the district attorney’s office in New York City. To my uncle, Ed is just another city slicker lawyer who’s just shelled out fifty dollars on a handsome Fraser Fir.
“I was telling your uncle what a great setup you all have here,” Ed announces as nonchalantly as possible.
“Yeah, he sure does. Perfect place for the big city folks to have their picture perfect moment,” I respond sarcastically.
Thankfully my uncle doesn’t hear my retort but Ed picks up on it, a small smirk forming on his face.
“Right,” Ed drawls. “Well, Merry Christmas just the same. Thanks again for the hospitality.”
He turns his attention back to the tree, making sure it’s snug for its trek back to the wealthy suburbs Ed calls home. Uncle Jerrod shakes Ed’s hand and bids him farewell, thanking him for his business.
I start to follow my uncle, not bothering to tell Ed goodbye, fighting the urge to deck Ed’s halls with my fist.
“Excuse me, miss?” Ed calls out. I turn around, nostrils flared because I’m ready to do battle.
Ed walks over to me and stops short of a few steps, so he’s close enough to speak to me in a hushed tone but not close enough to draw attention.
“Eden, I didn’t know you would be here.”
I scoff at him. “I didn’t think I would either, but after being fired from my job by a cock sucking prick, I didn’t have much choice.”
Ed takes a deep breath and runs one hand through his thick hair. “Look, I’m very sorry for how things ended between us. I didn’t want to hurt you but—,”
“But you did,” I snap, cutting him off. “You fucked me over Ed in more ways than one.”
“Didn’t you get my letter of recommendation? That can get you a career with any respectable lawyer in the city.”
I roll my eyes and let out a sardonic chuckle. “The great Ed Collins and his coveted letter of recommendation. You didn’t even have the decency to let me come back to the office and collect my stuff. Who in the hell do you think you are?”
A honking horn interrupts our conversation and it’s one of Ed’s snot nosed brats tapping the horn impatiently.
“Looks like you better go play the part of the loving family man, Ed. Wouldn’t want to keep your precious little family waiting.”
“That’s not fair Eden,” he hisses under his breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. And if I could take it all back, I would.”
“Take what back Ed? The part where you fired me or the part where you told me you loved me all those times, only to dump me?”
“Merry Christmas Eden. Take care of yourself. Alright?” Ed says.
I watch as he walks over to the Benz and climbs into the drivers seat, giving me one final pained look. I stand there like an idiot, watching as he drives off the lot and makes his way back to the main road.
“You good?” Will’s voice startles me from behind.
“Yeah,” I turn around and pass him his flask. “I’m good. Thanks for covering for me.”
Will’s not convinced but he doesn’t press me any further and I walk back towards my uncle, who’s waving me over to meet more customers. It’s going to be a long time before I wash the taste of Ed Collins out of my mouth. This place is just a cruel reminder that I’ll never be able to distance myself from him or my old life.
Chapter 2: Light Up Or Leave Me Alone
Summary:
Eden meets Tom Wolfe
Notes:
Tom Wolfe’s appearance and character traits are based on Philip Seymour Hoffman, another one of my favorite actors. If only he and J.T. had shared the screen together before J.T. passed away. I can imagine the two of them starring in something, perhaps a shady father/son duo or two brothers up to no good. PSH is another who was taken from this world too soon.
Chapter Text
The days following Ed’s impromptu visit to my uncle’s Christmas tree farm pass by in a blur of more customers and lonely nights where I lie in bed, wondering if I could’ve handled myself better. That’s one of the things I often do, I overthink every little thing, taking time to reflect on every interaction I have with meaningful people. Should I have said more, told Ed to go fuck himself, maybe even beat on the windows of his Mercedes station wagon while his wife watched in horror? Or should I have appeared unmoved and unnerved, like living and working on my uncle’s farm was so much better than being Ed’s paralegal back in the city?
Thankfully, I have Will and Christina around for entertainment. My aunt’s been helpful too, inviting me to family dinners. It’s been insufferable at best when Patrick and Caroline decide to join us. Like tonight, Patrick sneering at me from across the table in his ivory colored Lacoste polo shirt while he sniffs a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.
“So,” Patrick begins as he swirls the wine in his glass around. “How’s the big transition from hotshot New York paralegal to nobody in a little town working out for you?”
His remark earns a dirty look from Jerrod and a stifled laugh from Caroline. She’s all prim and proper with her 18 karat gold cross that hangs from her neck, as if she wears that to make herself feel better about the fact that she’s a royal cunt.
“Fine. About the same as it is for you, still living at home under your mom and dad’s roof at your age,” I retort.
Patrick smirks and takes a bite of his beef bourguignon, chewing his food as he carefully considers his words.
“That’s funny Eden. You always had such a warm sense of humor. No wonder you’re still alone. I suppose you haven’t found anyone who appreciates your unique personality.”
“Alright Patrick, that’s enough for one night,” Jerrod says sternly.
Patrick lets out a fake chuckle and shakes his head. “Oh come on dad, we’re just ribbing each other. Just like we used to do when we were kids. Right Eden?”
I don’t respond, just scowl at Patrick and take another bite of my food before washing it down with a glass of iced tea.
“Eden, you never did enlighten us on why you left the city,” Caroline decides to chime in.
I narrow my eyes at her, wondering what exactly I can say to her to put her in her place too. But I can tell my uncle and aunt aren’t in the mood for our regular back and forth banter, seeing who can get the last laugh between Patrick, Caroline and myself.
“I think Eden’s answered enough questions for one night. Besides Caroline, I could use your help plating our dessert tonight,” Martha interjects briskly, leaving no room for argument.
“No thanks,” Caroline scoffs, tossing her cloth napkin onto her barely touched plate. “No dessert for me. I’m on the Dukan Diet.”
“Fucking figures,” I mutter under my breath, too low for anyone else but Caroline to hear.
She scowls at me but she doesn’t respond. She knows better than to press me too hard.
As the conversation shifts to safer topics, like sales at the Christmas tree farm, I glance out the large set of windows in the dining room that overlook the sprawling vineyards. Even in the dark, it’s peaceful out there, the rows of vines stretching into the night like a promise of escape. I grip my glass tighter before taking a sip of tea. It’s nights like these with my extended family that remind me I’m just an outsider looking in.
….
A little later that evening, I’m hanging out in Jerrod’s barn, where the smell of hay mingles with the faint tang of damp earth and the weed joint that Will and I pass back and forth. Will sits on the seat of an antique Farm-all tractor, one leg kicked up across the hood. I stand below him, leaning against the tractor and take a long drag of the joint.
“So, how was dinner tonight with the loving Tyler family?” Will asks.
“Typical bullshit. Trying to dodge Patrick and his bitch wife’s constant digs and questions. Almost made me feel bad for my uncle and aunt,” I respond.
Will shakes his head and lets out a loose laugh and takes the joint back from me, pinching it between his thumb and index finger as he inhales it.
“Speaking of questions, I’ve got one to ask you. That is if you don’t plan on telling me to go fuck myself first.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I laugh and roll my eyes.
“Last weekend when you worked the tree lot, remember that guy that came in? The one you were talking to?” Will questions me.
I already know he’s referring to Ed Collins but I’m in no mood to answer any questions pertaining to him. “I talked to a lot of guys that weekend. What’s your point?”
“No, I mean the guy who had his happy little family with him, the lawyer. I overheard your uncle telling him about your paralegal career. I just got the impression that maybe you knew him from the city. That’s all,” Will states, his face neutral.
I like Will. He’s been a good ally in this fucked up place. We share the same sense of humor and he’s easy to get along with. I shouldn’t bullshit him and I know he’d be the kind of person I could confide in without him using it against me later on.
“I know him. He was my boss. Ed Collins.”
“I thought he looked familiar. Like last Christmas during all that shit that was on the news with the Santa Claus guy? I remembered seeing his face on the news and reading about it in the paper,” Will muses.
I nod my head. “That’s him. He’s a big deal in New York. I worked for him for six years before he asked me to resign.”
Will looks at me, a serious expression on his face. “How long were you involved with him?”
No sense in lying to Will. He’s a keen guy who sees through it all.
I take a deep breath and then the words start to flow.
“For about three years. I knew after a while I had feelings for him. But he was my boss so I knew it wasn’t appropriate to act on those feelings. He’s married with kids, you know? But over time we grew closer from spending so much time working together. He didn’t treat me like other lawyers had. He treated me like I was more than just someone to assist him. He made me feel valued. Important even. And he was so damn easy to talk to. I told him a lot, more than I ever should. He would always listen. Ed just made me feel like I was worth someone’s time. Before I knew it, we were screwing around. For years. But I guess his wife found out and he couldn’t have that. Couldn’t have some shitty fling break up his precious marriage, right? So he dumped me and then asked me to resign. And that was it. Whatever I thought I meant to Ed Collins was a lie. I didn’t mean shit.”
“Damn,” Will sighs. “That had to be rough. I at least hope he apologized to you.”
“Yeah right,” I chuckle bitterly. “I don’t think it was an actual, genuine apology. More to just make him feel better about himself. But his wife didn’t recognize me when they came to get their tree. I never met her the whole time I worked for him. I’d never told Ed about my uncle running this place either. Of all the fucking places to buy a tree, they had to come here. And ever since that day I’ve wondered if I should’ve stuck up for myself and put Ed in his place and made him feel bad.”
“Fuck Ed Collins and the horse he rode in on,” Will mumbles. “You’re a smart woman Eden. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone. Not him and certainly not these assholes running this show around here. You should go back to the city and work for someone else.”
I take the joint back from Will and take a couple of puffs, letting the skunky smelling smoke settle in my lungs before I exhale it. I’ve never been a big fan of marijuana, but at least it helps take my mind off of things. Gives me a buzz that feels like a warm hug. I pass the remainder of what’s left of it back to Will.
“I don’t know Will. I mean, I miss the city and my old life. But at least here, there’s no expectations. Nothing that anyone can hold over my head. It’s sort of like freedom even if it does hurt.”
“I get it. Maybe you could even find someone around town to work for if you get tired of working here for your uncle. If it makes you feel any better, I’m glad you decided to come here. You’ve made things a helluva lot more interesting since you showed up,” Will admits with a lopsided grin.
I smile up at him. “You’re not so bad yourself. It’s been fun hanging out with you and Christina both. Speaking of Christina, I wonder where she is this evening? I think she mentioned something about going on a date with one of the new guys my uncle hired for the season.”
“Sounds about right,” Will says. “She’s got that sort of personality that all men just love. Except for me. She’s like a sister. A bitchy sister.”
As gruff as Will might be on the exterior, get a little alcohol and weed in him and he’ll open right up. Will’s attractive in his own way even if it’s not in a way that I’d ever see him. Besides, he told me he’s got a girlfriend he sees on occasion who works as an au pair for a wealthy couple in the city. He looks forward to going down there to spend the holidays with her.
“Well,” Will hops down from the tractor, tossing the roach on the floor and crushing it underneath of his boot. “I better call it a night. Thanks to your uncle I’ll be up before sunrise. Try not to let any of that shit we talked about get you down. Ok?”
“Yeah,” I nod with a smile. “I’ll try. See you around Will.”
We exit the barn, me going out the front and him going out the back. I make my way back to the guesthouse, wrapping my coat around me a little tighter as the chilly December air nips at me. I took tomorrow off and decided to venture into the town of Northfield and see what I can find. And by that, I mean I have a doctor’s appointment with the general practitioner in town because I’m officially out of Percocet and I need a refill.
….
Dr. Arnold Carpenter stares down the bridge of his elongated nose, beyond the half glasses he wears, and offers me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his hazel eyes. The good doctor’s been in Northfield since he first completed his residency more than thirty years ago. Since then, he’s the sole doctor in the sleepy little town, treating whatever ails you. Strep throat? Yep. A case of the clap? No problem. A broken arm? Sure thing, until you can get to an orthopedic surgeon to have it officially looked at.
But what Dr. Carpenter doesn’t treat is a complex case like mine. I went to him for a checkup, to establish myself as a new patient when in reality, I need a new doctor to pass my sob story off to. I tried like hell in those couple of days I was still in New York City to get my doctor to refill my prescription for Percocet but he refused.
“Eden, you broke your ankle nine months ago. You completed physical therapy months ago. I can no longer, in good faith, prescribe you anymore narcotics,” he had told me over the phone, only after I called the office half a dozen times and left message after message for him.
“You’re 36 years old and generally speaking, seem to be in good health. I can have my nurse do some bloodwork and we’ll run labs on you to see if there’s anything that might need to be addressed,” Dr. Carpenter tells me as he jots some notes in my new medical record. “What else can I do for you today?”
I take a deep breath, digging my fingertips into the paper that covers the exam table I’m sitting on.
“Well, I actually have a bit of an issue,” I begin my lie. “I broke my ankle back in March. It wasn’t really a clean break. Even after surgery and physical therapy, I’m still dealing with a lot of pain. I was wondering if you could help me out with that. Some days the pain is unbearable. I spend a lot of time on my feet.”
Dr. Carpenter gives me a concerned look and then looks down at my foot. “What is that you do for a living?”
“I, uh. Work on a farm actually. I work for my uncle, Jerrod Tyler. You might know him.”
“Oh wow,” Dr. Carpenter smiles. “Jerrod! Sure, I know your uncle. Sells the best damn wine this side of New York. Not to mention the most handsome Christmas trees too. We go every year on Thanksgiving weekend and pick one out. Though I didn’t see you there when we went a couple of weeks ago to get our tree.”
“Yeah,” I nod my head. “I just recently moved to Northfield right after Thanksgiving to help my uncle out. It’s been hectic, running around for eight plus hours a day and nursing a bum ankle.”
I flick my foot in his direction as he sits perched on his stool, hoping he’ll at least take a look at it. But Dr. Carpenter’s no fool and he’s been around a long time.
“Do you happen to have your medical records from your previous physician? That way I can take a look to see what kind of treatment you had and what you were taking.”
“No, I don’t. To be honest that didn’t cross my mind to take care of before I left the city. But my doctor had me on Percocet. Twice a day as needed for the pain. But I’ve since ran out. And over the counter stuff doesn’t quite dull the pain,” I elaborate, really laying it on thick.
“I’d be more than happy to have one of the girls in the front office give them them a call. You’d just need to sign the proper paperwork so we have permission to access your medical records. It might take a few extra days but I would feel more comfortable seeing them for myself,” he offers.
Fuck, of course it would come down to this. I hate when people beat around the bush. Just come out and say it doc. You ain’t giving me my fuckin’ pills. Furthermore, I’ll be fucked as soon as he sees my record and all of the refills I was granted. That alone would raise concern in his mind.
I give him a sympathetic smile when in reality I just want to scream. “Ok, I’ll talk to them when I go to check out.”
“Good, I’ll make sure they take care of it this afternoon. In the meantime, I suggest rest and elevation. Alternate ice and heat therapy. Tell your uncle to go easy on you for a few days,” Dr. Carpenter insists with a smile that feels too forced.
With that, I bid him farewell, cursing him out in my mind as I make my way up to the front office. I don’t even bother to tell the girl that checks me out about needing to get my records from my old doctor. I just leave the office after being told Dr. Carpenter will call me with the results of my bloodwork when it’s complete.
On my way out to my car, I really have my meltdown. I took my last Percocet two days ago. I’m already in withdrawal. That explains the state of agitation, restlessness and the sweating I’ve been experiencing even though it’s December.
I stand outside of my car, digging in my purse for my pack of cigarettes and lighter. I shakily inhale my cigarette as I lean against the driver’s side door and start to cry. I’m having a tear jerking moment in the parking lot of a small town physician’s office.
“Hey,” a voice calls out. I look to see a disheveled looking young woman approaching me. Her blonde hair is thin and stringy and hangs in her eyes. She wears a tattered jacket and a pair of jeans that look like they’ve seen better days.
“I’m not interested,” I tell her, cutting her with a glare that says I mean business.
“It’s not like that lady,” she huffs. “You look like you’re in need of something.”
I narrow my eyes at her and take another drag of my cigarette. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want. So run along now.”
“You came here hoping Doc Carpenter was gonna take care of you, weren’t ya?” She questions me, eyes as big as marbles. It’s clear the woman is under the influence of something.
“And you thought wrong huh? Well I know someone who can help you. You don’t need a doctor’s prescription pad to get what you need,” the woman declares with a wicked smile.
As much as I want to tell this woman to go to hell, I can’t. While it’s clear she and I are from two different walks of life (and maybe I’m acting as pretentious as Patrick and Caroline are), we are apparently cut from the same cloth. Maybe this ruffian of a woman was sent to me like a guardian angel. She just happens to be in the right place at the right time. Still, it feels shady and wrong to take advice from a stranger who hangs around the parking lot of a doctor’s office, approaching people in a shifty manner about drugs.
“You know the bar, The Cornerstone? Over on Wyler Street? What you need is there. Just ask for Tom.”
“Who in the hell is Tom?” I inquire.
“He’s the man who’s gonna solve all of your problems. Just tell him Whitney sent you. Good luck,” she laughs at me, a sound that grates on my ears and nerves.
“Ok,” I respond, flicking my dying cigarette to the wind before I unlock my car door.
“And next time,” she announces, coming a little closer. “Don’t act so fuckin’ high and mighty.”
Before I can say anything else, this strange woman named Whitney walks off, muttering to herself. I slip inside of my car and start the engine, wondering if I’m walking into a trap of some sorts. Perhaps Whitney is an undercover DEA agent looking to bait someone like me, while another undercover agent is posted up at The Cornerstone to bust me.
Whatever. I light another cigarette and make my way down to Wyler Street, one block removed from the picturesque shops and ritzy restaurants on Main Street. Wyler Street houses a hair salon, a hardware store, a cigar shop and The Cornerstone Pub, located right on the corner in a building with a stone front. Will had told me The Cornerstone was a favorite haunt of Uncle Jerrod’s other employees when they weren’t getting high or drunk on the grounds of Fox Ridge.
Until today, I’ve never set foot in this fine establishment. I pull my car up on the mostly empty street, angling it behind an old Cadillac Coupe DeVille and get out, making my way to the heavy front door of The Cornerstone, pulling it open.
The smell of cigarettes and stale beer greets me. A grizzled older man stands behind the bar, in the throes of a crossword puzzle. He wears flannel (a Northfield staple apparently) and a pair of jeans. His gray hair is pulled back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck and he tips his chin in my direction.
“Whatcha having?” He asks me.
I climb into one of the barstools and look around. There’s an older couple at a booth, and a younger guy at the far end of the bar in the corner who’s reading a book and throwing back a bottle of Budweiser.
“I’ll take a club soda. With a splash of vodka,” I tell the bartender.
He says nothing else, just gets to work making me a quick drink and slides it in front of me underneath of a cocktail napkin.
“Here,” he sets a bowl of peanuts down in front of me. “What else can I get you? Wanna look at the food menu?”
I use the little plastic straw in my glass to stir the ice around in my drink and shake my head. “No. But I’m looking for someone. You’re not Tom are you?”
The man cackles low laughter and shakes his head. “Sure ain’t. But Tom’s here. He’s in the little boys room.”
I offer the bartender a smile. “Thanks.”
I take a sip of the drink and look at the television in the upper corner, blasting Donahue. The white haired, bespectacled television host is getting all riled up about something but what it is, I can’t tell, because the TV’s been muted. Instead, the twang of an electric guitar fills the air.
”Sometimes I feel like I’m
Fadin’ away. You’re lookin
At me, I got nothin’ to say.
Don’t make me angry,
With the games
That you play.
Either light up or leave me alone.”
About that time, heavy footsteps thud on the worn floors and I see a rumpled looking man approach the bar, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He plops onto a stool several seats down from mine. The sunlight that creeps in from the high up windows of the bar hits his strawberry blonde hair just right so it looks like it’s on fire. He’s a little pudgy with pinkish skin and looks like the kind of guy who’s seen better days.
The bartender makes his way down to where the man sits and whispers something to him. Out of my peripheral vision, I can see the bartender pointing in my direction. I hear the man clear his throat and he lets out a ”hmmm” noise. He raps the bar with his knuckles and clears his throat again. I glance over at him and he offers me a small wave.
“Come on down, I’m not gonna bite you,” he announces in a low voice.
I take my drink and get up, walking down to where this guy sits, leaving one barstool between us. This must be Tom. He wears a suit that looks like it hasn’t seen an iron and a tie hangs loosely around his neck.
“I’m Tom by the way,” he offers me his hand.
“Hi,” I fake a smile as I shake his hand back. His hands are warm and clammy and I immediately want to wash my hands.
“Don said you were looking for me. What can I do you for?” Tom questions me with a sly smile.
I take a hefty sip of my drink. If this guy’s an undercover cop, I might as well try and get half of a buzz before I break a few laws and end up in jail.
“This is weird,” I begin and pause, trying to choose my words without giving away too much. “But uh, I ran into someone today. Her name’s Whitney. Said I should ask for you.”
Tom chuckles, his blue eyes lighting up a little. “Oh yes. The infamous Whitney Harrison. One of my most cherished…customers. What do you need?”
It’s clear that Tom isn’t going to just come right out with it and neither am I. But Tom looks like the kind of guy who’s going to get what he wants from you, even if it’s by using unorthodox methods. Something about this whole experience makes me feel uneasy so I take another swig of my drink.
Tom takes a puff of his cigarette, slowly exhaling it before he sighs. “Look sweetheart, I’m a busy man. So maybe just skip the shy girl act and tell me what you want.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly something I want to say out loud,” I growl.
Tom glances around the nearly empty bar, save the few other souls who are here too. “What, are you worried someone might hear you? It’s 11:30 on a Thursday morning. You think
Don over there,” He nods toward the indifferent bartender. “Gives a shit? Or the dork in the corner reading his book? Come on, spill the beans.”
“Fine,” I mumble. “I need pills.”
“Great!” He says enthusiastically. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it? So what are we talking? Oxy? Xanax? Maybe a little Dilaudid?”
Jesus Christ, this guy’s not playing around. If he is a cop, god help me. No laws have been broken…yet.
“Percocet,” I whisper.
Tom nods his head and flashes a smile at me. “Percocet huh? Classy. Safe choice for a gal like you. I pegged you more for a few bars of Xanax with the way you’re shaking but hey, every now and then I’m wrong.”
“A 30 day supply of generic is gonna run you fifty bucks. The brand name is double that. And it’s cash only,” Tom states nonchalantly like he’s selling popcorn for The Boy Scouts.
“Ok,” I grumble, reaching in my purse for my wallet but Tom cuts me off, placing his hand on my arm.
“Whoa, easy there. If you want your stuff, you’ve gotta meet me at my office,” Tom insists. He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a business card, plopping it down on the bar in front of me.
“The address is on this card. Anytime after 5pm.” Tom taps the card with two fat fingers and I look down at it.
Griffith & Wolfe: Attorneys At Law
1610 Sawyer Avenue
Northfield, NY 01235
“They’re legit right?” I ask Tom.
Tom leans back in his barstool, feigning offense. “’Legit’? I source my goods straight from the supplier. What do you think I am, some two-bit dealer? I run a respectable operation.”
I suppress a sarcastic laugh, eyeing the slovenly looking guy before me who’s about to my new connect. “Right. Respectable.”
“Next time you need something, page the number on the back. Otherwise, I’ll see you tonight after five. What’s your name by the way?”
“Eden,” I respond, then regret telling him my actual name.
“Eden,” Tom repeats then nods at me. “Tom Wolfe, at your service. See you tonight.”
So the Wolfe in Griffith & Wolfe is Tom Wolfe who’s not only a pill pusher but an attorney? What the fuck kind of town is this anyway?
….
At ten minutes past five, I find myself standing on the doorstep of a modest brick building on Sawyer Avenue, a small sign hanging above the entryway from a scrolling wrought iron post reading ”Griffith & Wolfe, Attorneys At Law”, just like on the business card.
Before I can ring the doorbell, it swings open and Tom stands there, looking even more worse for the wear than he looked earlier today. “Right on time. Come on in.”
I follow him inside the office, the smell of burnt coffee mingling with cigarette smoke and something sharper hitting my olfactory nerves. There’s a small waiting room with a potted ficus tree that looks like it’s barely hanging on and a reception desk that looks like it hasn’t been manned since the Bush Administration.
Following Tom down a short hallway, he leads me into his office. His desk is a wreck, an ashtray overflowing in a sea of Camel butts and a half empty bottle of J&B Rare scotch whiskey sitting open next to the phone. A mountain of paperwork and legal files are scattered around his desk in piles that scream controlled chaos. Tom plops down in his oversized leather chair behind the desk and gestures for me to sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. On the wall behind him are various framed photographs and degrees. I’m surprised to find he holds a juris doctorate from Hofstra University School of Law.
“Alright,” Tom proclaims as he digs around in his desk and tosses a bottle of generic Percocet on top of it. “There you go. Fifty bucks.”
Now is the moment where the undercover agents waiting in the wings will burst onto the scene, throwing a pair of handcuffs on me before dragging me out of here. I can only imagine the shame I would bring my deceased father as he rolls over in his grave, as well as my uncle Jerrod and aunt Martha. This will really give Patrick and Caroline more ammunition to hold over my head now.
I mean really, a shady guy disguised as an attorney who sells pills? You can’t make this shit up. This is the kind of story that would make headlines. God, if Ed Collins ever got wind of this, I bet his pompous ass would really enjoy it, knowing he made the right decision by not only breaking off our affair, but forcing me to resign. No more paralegal license. No more nothing. I’m fucked.
“Look,” Tom scratches his head. “Now’s not the part in the movie where I’m gonna bust you or anything.” It’s almost like he’s reading my mind.
I take a deep breath, reaching into my purse and pull out a crisp fifty dollar bill, passing it over to him.
Tom holds it up to the overhead fluorescent lighting, like he’s examining it to make sure it’s not counterfeit. “Great. You need anything else? Maybe some coke? Fentanyl? Perhaps legal advice?”
“Legal advice?” I deadpan, snatching the pills off the desk and chuck them into my purse. “Do you really think you’re in a position to offer legal advice with as many laws as you’ve just broken?”
Tom remains cool and shrugs his shoulders. “I offer a service that people need. Whether you need legal representation or something on the pharmaceutical level, I’m the one to call. But perhaps if you don’t trust me enough to be on the up and up, you can go down the hall and see my partner, Frank Griffith. You look like the type to run into trouble from time to time.”
“No fucking thanks,” I respond. “I can only imagine what kind of man he is, if he allows you to operate in this manner.”
“No need to be crass about it honey. After all, you’re the one who came to me. So what does that say about you?”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah,” Tom drawls with a laugh. “Whatever. See you around Eden.”
I get out of there as fast as I can, only breathing in relief when my car is speeding two blocks away. I keep checking my rearview mirror expecting to see the flash of blue and red lights approaching me as half of the Northfield Police Department hones in on me. But nothing happens. I stop at the lone stoplight that leads me out of town and back towards the countryside, back to Fox Ridge. And then I take one of the pills I’d just illegally acquired from one Tom Wolfe.
I already know this won’t be the last time I see Tom Wolfe.
Chapter 3: Griffith & Wolfe, Attorneys At Law
Summary:
It’s Christmas Eve and Eden has nowhere else to turn, calling up Tom Wolfe for another much needed fix. She also gets introduced to Tom’s business partner and fellow attorney, Frank Griffith.
Notes:
The end of this chapter was written kinda in the style of a movie scene. This was just a random idea that popped into my head at 2pm. Just a way to get into each character’s head.
Chapter Text
Sunday, December 24th, 1995
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m out of pills. I managed to make it through the holiday hell of schlepping Christmas trees, Holly wreaths, mistletoe bundles and wine for my uncle. Dealing with self righteous rich assholes wanting their perfect Christmas tree. Dealing with Patrick and Caroline’s constant mockery of my life. Dealing with listening to Will and Christina squawk about one thing then another. I’ve eaten a lot of crow and I’m done. A woman can only take so much.
Christmas is a time for giving, not receiving. But I won’t be getting shit, so it’s time to take matters into my own hands. That thirty day supply of painkillers that would last most people thirty days, dwindles a lot quicker when you’re taking upwards of four a day. I’m a mess. So I did what Tom Wolfe asked me to do the last time I saw him and paged him for my next fix.
It’s lightly snowing and looks like a storybook moment. I shiver inside of my car as I wait on the street, parked in front of Griffith & Wolfe, Attorneys At Law, waiting for Tom to get his ass here. I paged him and he back to say he was ”on the way”. That was an hour ago. It’s 6:30pm and I get the impression Tom’s not a family man who’s at home, gathered around the fireplace with his wife and 2.5 kids, sipping hot cocoa. No, a man like Tom probably doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.
A few moments later, I hear the screeching of tires and a big Cadillac rumbles by, rolling two wheels up on the sidewalk in front of the office building, its muffler spewing enough smoke to choke out a tunnel full of rush hour traffic. After a couple of dramatic minutes of nothing happening but me waiting on edge, the driver’s door swings open and out climbs Tom.
I roll my eyes. He looks in my direction as my windshield wipers swipe across the glass, clearing some of the dusty powder that’s gathered on it. He waves at me impatiently and unlocks the door to his law office. I kill the ignition to my car and dash out, following him inside.
“Well, well. I knew you’d be back,” Tom says with a wide grin. He’s wearing a red turtleneck underneath a navy sport coat, garish looking holiday plaid pants and loafers. Tom’s cheeks are perpetually rosy, and it’s not from the below freezing temperatures outside. No, he’s got that chronic alcoholic glow.
“Sorry for the delay,” he leads me down the hallway to his office, ushering me inside. “The Cornerstone is hopping tonight. You should see this fucking place. They’ve got a drunk Santa singing karaoke, and his naughty elves…well, let’s just say they’re making sure everyone’s needs are being tended to.”
“Sounds like a real good time,” I respond sarcastically as I take a seat at Tom’s cluttered desk.
Tom digs around in his desk and drops a small brown paper bag on it, the pills rattling inside as it thumps against the desk. “Your usual. Generic Perc. That’ll be seventy-five.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Seventy-five? Last time it was fifty.”
Tom shrugs like it’s nothing. “And? It’s Christmas Eve sweetheart. You think I’m giving discounts for the holidays? Besides, consider this a favor. I don’t normally operate on such short notice.”
“Bullshit,” I grumble, grabbing a fifty, twenty and five one dollar bills out of my wallet, slapping them in Tom’s grubby open hand.
“That kind of attitude isn’t going to do you any favors, you know? Why don’t you come down to The Cornerstone and have a drink and get the stick out of your ass? It’s Christmas after all. Time to get in the spirit,” Tom says amicably.
I snatch the bag off the desk and inspect the contents before shoving it inside of my purse. “I’d rather eat glass.”
“My, my, my. What a chip you have on your shoulder. Tell me Eden, how exhausting is it walking around like that all the time?” Tom presses with a knowing smirk.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one who moonlights as a lawyer when in reality you’re nothing more than a drug dealer,” I snap back.
“I’m good at my job. And I operate my business in such a manner that it’s just within the confines of the law. I run a discreet business for discerning clientele like yourself. Let’s face it, if the big bad lawmen come a-knockin’, you’re just as guilty as I am,” Tom reflects.
I roll my eyes. “Right Tom. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Thanks for busting your ass to come down here and sell me some pills.”
“Anytime,” Tom chuckles. “You sure you’re not up for a drink? Hell, I’ll even buy you one the first one.”
I snort cynical laughter. “Yeah, with the money I just gave you? No thanks. I’m sure I’ll be in touch.”
I turn to leave and Tom’s still chuckling to himself. On the way out the door, I collide with someone.
“Excuse me,” the man says in a low and gravelly voice. In the somewhat darkened hallway, I can make out his imposing figure. He’s taller than Tom, broad shouldered and wears a long black coat with what appears to be a suit on underneath.
“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to sidestep the man but he looms in front of me, blocking the hall.
“You a client of Tom’s?” He asks.
“Yeah,” Tom answers before I can, appearing in the doorway. “Needed a little legal advice before the holidays and all.”
With that, the man throws on the light switch in the hallway, fully illuminating himself in all of his commanding glory. When I lock eyes with him, I nearly choke on my own oxygen. It’s like looking at Ed Collins, if he were just slightly older. His hair is lightly receding and slicked back, a little more gray than Ed’s but still a sandy color. But his piercing light blue eyes and the sharp lines of his face are a mirror image of Ed Collins. He even sounds like him, if Ed were a chain smoker.
What the FUCK is going on here? Have I been displaced to The Twilight Zone?!
I take a deep breath, my mouth hanging open as the man smiles a predator’s smile, all teeth, some stained with nicotine but mostly straight.
“Frank Griffith,” he sticks his hand out to me. “Pleased to meet you.”
I return his handshake, looking at him in bewilderment. I’m not even high yet and I can’t tell if this is some hallucination or actual reality. Is this man related to Ed Collins? He could be his older brother for Christ’s sake!
“This is Eden,” Tom tells Frank.
“Eden. How nice of you to visit our humble law office on Christmas Eve of course,” Frank grins like he’s not buying it.
I pull my hand away from Frank. “I have to go,” I respond weakly.
Frank steps aside so I can pass by him. “Didn’t mean to hold you up. Merry Christmas.”
“You too,” I reply and don’t bother to look back as I rush out of there as fast as I can.
When I’m finally in the comfort of my car popping a couple of pills, Frank and Tom are in the middle of a conversation.
“What’s the deal with the dame?” Frank asks.
“Ah, you know. Another lost soul. I don’t know much about her. Other than she likes Percocet. She started coming around a couple of weeks ago,” Tom replies nonchalantly.
“Well,” Frank says. “Try and keep it on the down low. The last thing I need is a fucking DEA raid in my law office.”
Tom laughs, clearly unbothered. “Come on Frank. Have a heart. It’s Christmas. The poor girl has nothing else to look forward to.”
“Yeah well, like I said. Try and keep it on the down low. It doesn’t look right, people coming by in the middle of the night to get their drug fix,” Frank asserts himself.
“Middle of the night?” Tom scoffs. “Frank, it’s not even 7pm. Besides, why are you here anyway?”
Frank narrows his blue eyes at Tom in a calculating fashion. “Last time I checked, I own this office and I’m the senior partner. So I can come by here anytime I goddamn well please.”
“Alright Frank. Jeez. You coming over to The Cornerstone? They got a packed house. Complimentary slippery nipples and everything.”
“No, I’ve got a meeting of my own to tend to.”
“Oh?” Tom grins, one eyebrow raised. “With whom?”
“Let’s just say this. Someone from my past. Someone who owes me something. It’s Christmas so it’s time to cash in,” Frank responds smugly, a slow smirk spreading across his face, just like The Grinch.
Tom laughs, clearly pleased with his elder partner in law and partner in crime. “That’s the spirit. Merry Christmas Frank.”
“Yeah Wolfe. Merry Christmas.”
I don’t know it yet, but meeting these two men will set off a chain reaction that will take me places I’ve never been before. My run in with Frank Griffith at his law office on Christmas Eve, while illegally buying prescription narcotics from his law partner, will be the catalyst for my life changing experience.
….
(A narrator’s voice begins low and pulverant. Perhaps it’s the voice of the aesthetically pleasing Stacy Keach, who’s made a career in character acting as well as voice-overs. Either way, imagine a voice of your liking that’s perfect for storytelling. An accompanying music track sets the scene for this, “Can’t Get Used to Losing You” by the crooner Andy Williams.
The scene is black and then slowly fades to the law offices of Griffith & Wolfe, Attorneys At Law, the sign above the establishment faintly swinging in the breeze.)
Narrator:
“Upon seeing the law offices of Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys At Law, you would think this is the setting for a dynamic duo, two legal powerhouses who run the town behind elegant mahogany desks, the smell of leather bound books and imported coffee filling the air, the secrets buried deep. But no. This is Northfield, New York, a sleepy little town that’s a 90 minute drive from New York City. The only thing these two are burying is their moral compass.”
(The camera pans inside, starting at the vacant reception area. A faint murmur of yacht rock leaks from Tom Wolfe’s office as the camera pans down the hallway before stopping at his doorway. A closeup of Tom’s face, lighting a cigarette before it pans out, revealing him leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. His wrinkled suit jacket is hung up on the chair behind him and the sleeves of his button-up are rolled up. His strawberry blonde hair is rumpled and he runs his fingers through it. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but this is the way Tom Wolfe always looks.)
Narrator:
“Tom Wolfe, a mess in human form. 37 years old, graduated in the bottom percentile of his class at Hofstra University. He didn’t officially sit for the bar exam until he was 30, but he practiced law anyway. After all, who cares? He knew enough. He’s the guy you call when you’ve got a legal problem or if you need something stronger than aspirin. He’s not so much a lawyer as he is a jack-of-all-illegal-trades. Pills, drugs, whatever you’re looking for, Tom’s got a guy—and if he doesn’t, he’ll become the guy. For a price.”
(Cut to Tom pulling a bottle of Cutty Sark out of his desk drawer, pouring a hefty amount into a chipped and stained coffee mug. The sunlight streams in through the cracked blinds of his office, revealing a haze of cigarette smoke and dust floating through the air. He’s mid-conversation with his client, a sweaty man who laughs nervously when Tom cracks an off color joke.)
Narrator:
“Tom’s the kind of guy who comes in hot, never bothering to pump the brakes before he hits a concrete wall at 75 miles per hour. He’d be unbearable if he weren’t so damn entertaining. Tom’s the kind of guy who could con a priest into skipping confession, and you wouldn’t even be mad about it.”
(The camera shifts to Frank Griffith’s office, just down the hall. The lighting here is sharper, colder. Frank is seated behind his desk, meticulously dressed in a crisp button down and dress slacks, topped off with a bolo tie and polished black cowboy boots propped up on the desk. He’s flipping through a thick file, cigarette smoke curling lazily around him. A vintage ashtray overflows at his elbow.)
Narrator:
“And then there’s Frank Griffith. The senior partner. The big dog. 55 years old and twice divorced. You don’t stay in business as long as Frank has without knowing how to play dirty. And Frank? Well, he’s a master of the long game. If Tom’s a wildfire, Frank’s the creeping smoke that chokes you out before you even see the flames. You’ll never even see him coming.”
(Cut to a close-up of Frank’s face, his pale blue eyes glinting like chipped ice as he scans a contract. His lips quirk into a slow, calculating smirk.)
Narrator:
“Where Tom’s chaos wrapped in a wrinkled suit, Frank’s chaos wrapped in charm. He’s smooth. Polished. But make no mistake, underneath all that genteel gentleman schtick is a man who’d sell his soul twice just to keep the lights on. He doesn’t need to con you, he’ll make you con yourself and charge you while doing it.”
(The scene cuts to Frank meeting a client in the parking lot, a man who looks like the stereotypical Italian mobster cast in a Scorsese film. The two men shake hands like old friends while Frank accepts an envelope of cash with the other and slips it into his coat pocket. A glossy black Lincoln Towncar sits idling nearby, its hood gleaming under the sun.)
Narrator:
“Frank doesn’t mind bending the law, as long as it bends in his favor. DUIs, shady business deals, insurance fraud, the occasional blackmail case—he’s not picky. He’s the man you call when you need results. You wouldn’t want to ask him how he’ll get it done, but you’d call him anyway. He’s damn good at what he does. Too good.”
(The music swells as the screen splits to Frank in his office lighting another cigarette, Tom in his pouring himself another drink. Their voices overlap for a moment as they argue about some unseen case, Tom’s snarky drawl cutting against Frank’s measured steel.)
Narrator:
“They’ve been partners for years. They don’t like each other, but they need each other. They’re not partners by choice. They’re partners because no one else would have them. Tom’s the chaos, Frank’s the mastermind in control. Together, they’re a nightmare dressed up as a law firm. They’re the people you call when you have no one else to call.”
(The camera abruptly cuts to a close up of Eden Tyler’s crying face as she sits inside her BMW, swallowing another Percocet with a mini bottle of Smirnoff vodka. She wipes at her tear stained cheeks and taps the accelerator as her car takes off down a dark highway.)
Narrator:
“And then there’s Eden Tyler, 36 years old and freshly uprooted from her promising paralegal career in the city. After having been duped by her married boss, the illustrious prosecutor Ed Collins, she’s got nowhere else to go. Her only remaining living family members are her wealthy Uncle Jerrod Tyler and his wife, Martha, who run Fox Ridge Vineyards and Christmas Tree Farm in Northfield. Eden shacks up in the farm’s guesthouse, while she plugs Christmas trees by day. By night, she drowns her sorrows and pops pills while she’s not being mocked by her cousin Patrick and his goody two shoes wife Caroline”.
(The scene cuts to Eden standing in the middle of the lot of her uncle’s bustling Christmas tree farm, looking disconsolate as people move around her, all full of holiday cheer. She stares vacantly off into space or perhaps she’s stoned. The camera pans all the way back until she’s just a tiny speck in a sea of greenery.)
Narrator:
“Having been given the run around by medical professionals, Eden turns to the most unlikely source for her next score, Tom Wolfe.”
(The scene from earlier plays out, but sped up, the drug transaction between Eden and Tom in his office on Christmas Eve. It ends with Eden running into Frank and locking eyes with him once Frank cuts on the hallway lights. Then, the screen splits into three sections, Frank on the left, a closeup of his face as he looms above Eden, Eden in the middle as she stares at like Frank like she’s seen a ghost, and lastly on the right is Tom, leaning against the doorframe of his office with a curious smile as he watches the two of them.)
Narrator:
“These three misguided individuals are on a crash course, headed straight to their destiny or straight to hell—whichever you prefer. If you’re still watching, God help you. Welcome to Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys At Law. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
(The song slowly fades out as the scene cuts to all black.)
Chapter 4: Under My Thumb
Summary:
The plot starts to thicken as Eden questions her Uncle Jerrod about Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe. Little does she know, the Tyler family is already on the radar of the two “law abiding” attorneys.
Notes:
Parts of this story will be told in third person from here on out. Not to be confusing but you’ll see what I mean as you read the chapter. The focus will still be on our main character, but also times for Frank and Tom to have their own moments.
Chapter Text
The day after Christmas, I sit with my uncle, dining inside of 357 Main, a trendy eatery on Main Street in Northfield. The restaurant is located next door to Horse N’ Hound, a stuffy equestrian shop that caters to the horse lovers in this town. Uncle Jerrod had just taken me in there, having exchanged a pair of fancy leather riding boots that he bought for his wife for Christmas.
I’ve never ate at 357 Main until today. It’s not the kind of place I’d frequent. Posh diners sit decked in their best clothes, vintage Hermes scarves tied around their necks as they sip on Manhattans and pass amicable chatter back and forth. I’m eating the French onion soup while my uncle takes a bite of his shepherd’s pie.
“What do you think? Any good?” Uncle Jerrod questions me.
“Yeah, thanks. Not bad,” I tell him because I’ve had better in New York City.
The food in Northfield is nothing like the food back in the Big Apple. You can get whatever you want, whenever you want. Perhaps you have a hankering for New York style cheesecake at 1am, or want some falafel early in the morning or just have a craving for a Big Mac from
McDonald’s at any given moment. The possibilities for dining in NYC are endless. Besides 357 Main, there’s a few other similarly done swanky little eateries. Even an Italian joint or two, a Greek place, Tastee Freeze, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a couple of Chinese restaurants. Either way, I miss the taste of food back in the city.
I’m thankful Christmas is over with. No more Christmas trees and no more shiny little families having their Hallmark moment on the farm. Uncle Jerrod and aunt Martha were nice enough to give me cash for Christmas, as well as a cashmere scarf. What did I get them? Nothing, because what do you get the couple that already has everything? I felt bad about it but I can tell neither one of them cares. I damn sure didn’t bother to get Patrick or Caroline anything, nor did they return the favor.
“So,” Uncle Jerrod begins. “Now that the holidays are over with, everyone gets off until after the new year. I pay my people to be off until the day after new years. Then it’s back to business. Since you’re staying with us for a while, I might as well let you spend some time with Patrick learning the ropes of the vineyard.”
Fuck me. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna spend the off season learning about grapes from Patrick when I’d rather drown him in a vat full of ‘em. The thought of spending all day with his condescending ass is enough to make me want to upchuck my soup.
Uncle Jerrod must see the disdain creeping across my face as he chews some more of his entree. “Or maybe not. Maybe you’d like to look into working somewhere here in town?”
“Yeah right,” I mumble under my breath.
My uncle frowns. “Well Eden I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’ll have to do something. Martha and I talked about it. While we appreciate your help, you can’t just hang around the farm all day drinking and doing whatever else it is you’re doing.”
I narrow my eyes at my uncle, but I’m not met with any judgment like I’ve grown used to from his offspring and the offspring’s wife. His green eyes just look at me and he reaches his hand across the table to pat mine reassuringly.
“I don’t know what happened when you were in the city. I know you had a pretty successful career and I’m sure it’s been hard to leave it all behind. I know your life hasn’t exactly been easy. But you’ve got to learn to pick yourself up by your boot straps. Martha and I don’t mind you staying in the guesthouse, you can stay as long as you’d like. But you’re gonna have to find something productive to do if working on the farm isn’t for you,” he says in an even tone.
“I can pay you rent,” I offer up.
Jerrod shakes his head no. “That’s not necessary. I don’t even charge Patrick rent so I wouldn’t charge my niece rent either. Just promise me you’ll at least look for something. There’s law offices here in town. Or maybe something entirely different if you’re looking for a change of pace.”
Ah, yes. Law offices. Like Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys At Law. I wonder how much my uncle knows about their little operation.
“Do you know any of the attorneys around here?” I question him.
“Sure,” Jerrod nods his head. “Let’s see, there’s Elgin and Elgin, father and son duo. Then there’s Crocker, Davis and Thurston. I’ve used them a lot over the years especially when it comes to real estate matters. As a matter of fact, Robert Davis and I go way back. Why don’t we stop by there after lunch? I can introduce you.”
The idea of my uncle having to take my 36 year old ass by the hand to find a new career doesn’t sound like something I want to get involved in. I take a sip of my drink and then I let my curiosity get the better of me.
“What do you know about Griffith and Wolfe?”
I watch as my uncle’s jaw goes slack and he gets this look on his face that can best be described as appalled.
“Frank Griffith and his partner Tom Wolfe? Yeah, they’re attorneys too. But not exactly the kind of place I’d suggest you work in,” he says quietly.
“Why not? They can’t be that bad can they? Most lawyers are assholes anyway,” I laugh.
“Eden,” Jerrod states. “You’ve been around these lawyer types more than I have. But trust me when I say this. Frank and Tom are trouble. It would be in your best interest to stay away from them. How’d you hear about them anyway?”
I’m certainly not going to tell my uncle that Tom’s been my source of scoring illegal prescription narcotics, nor am I going to tell him that I’ve been to their office more than once.
“I’ve driven by their office, that’s all,” I lie.
“Ok. Look, you’re a grown adult. You’re gonna do what you want. But you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a daughter. And I know for a fact if your dad was still around, he wouldn’t want you even thinking about getting involved with those kind of people. Frank and Tom don’t always play nice.”
Of course they don’t play nice. One’s a drug dealer with a law degree and the other one’s a mystery besides being a doppelgänger for a man I used to sleep with. I have yet to figure out Frank Griffith and just how he operates. Tom’s the furthest thing from ethical a person can get and I can imagine Frank isn’t too far behind.
I give my uncle a smile so he knows I understand what he’s getting at, even if deep down I’m already enmeshed with the shady law practices of Griffith and Wolfe, more so Wolfe. “Sure uncle Jerrod. Thanks for looking out for me.”
Uncle Jerrod gives me a wink and a smile and we finish up our lunch.
As we’re walking out of 357 Main, headed down the street to where Jerrod’s Range Rover is parked, I stop in my tracks. Headed up the sidewalk straight for us is none other than Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe. Fuck! This can’t be good, especially since they’ll both recognize me. There’s no sense in keeping my head down because Tom’s glassy eyes are already zeroed in on me. He gets a shitty smirk on his face as he nudges Frank.
Frank looks at me, his lips curling into a quick smile before his face goes flat, showing he’s capable of letting me maintain some anonymity. Tom on the other hand’s already waving his fat hand.
“Well, hello there,” Tom says as the two men stop in front of us. A pained expression crosses my uncle’s face.
“Tom, Frank,” He nods his head at each of them.
“Jerrod Tyler, always a pleasure,” Frank’s voice is smooth, too smooth. He extends his hand and my uncle shakes it like he’s shaking hands with the devil himself.
“Good to see you both,” My uncle says curtly.
“Always good to see you too. And who might this be?” Frank gestures in my direction.
“My niece,” Jerrod responds, forcing a smile.
Tom lets out a nervous laugh. “Your niece? Huh! What a small world. You look so familiar. Haven’t we met before?” He asks me.
Before I can say anything, Frank’s already two steps ahead. “So Jerrod, how’s things over at the farm? I’m sure you were quite busy during the holidays and all. Got anything exciting lined up for the vineyard?”
Tom gives me a knowing smirk and rolls his eyes as my uncle pretends to make conversation with Frank. Thankfully Frank’s the more levelheaded of the two, otherwise, I’m not sure how I could lie my way out of that whole situation with my uncle.
“Oh you know, if it’s not broke, you don’t fix it. We’ll be working on harvesting before we get the vineyard running for the season,” Jerrod’s voice trails off as he looks from Tom to myself. “Anyway, sorry to rush off but we’ve got an appointment. Happy New Year.”
Frank steps back, holding his arm out so we can pass between the two men. “Likewise Jerrod. Give Patrick my best. I hope he’s flying under the radar these days.”
I hear Tom’s low chuckle as we walk past them and I see the tense look on my uncle’s face. Once we’re inside the car, he rubs his fingers on his temples like he’s trying to get rid of a headache.
“That was Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe. See what I mean? Not the kind of people you want to get involved with,” Jerrod insists.
“Small world,” I mumble as he starts the car.
No, they’re not the kind of people anyone with an ounce of respect would want to get involved with, but then again, I’m not exactly an upstanding citizen myself these days. Still, Frank’s words ring out in my mind about Patrick flying under the radar. What exactly does Frank know about my cousin? What exactly is my uncle not telling me?
….
Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe don’t dine at places like 357 Main and it’s not because they can’t afford it. No, they slip into the greasy spoon around the corner called Faye’s Diner. It’s probably the most generic looking restaurant in the whole town, catering to people who don’t give a shit if there’s grease caked on the wall, the linoleum floors are in need of replacing and the eggs are always runny, as long as the coffee’s fresh.
“Did you see that shit?” Tom huffs as he heaves himself into one of the sticky, green vinyl upholstered booths.
Frank ignores his question and slides into the seat across from him, grabbing a menu as he pretends to read it.
“Hey,” Tom snaps his fingers. “What the fuck was that all about?”
“What was what all about?” Frank drawls, a look of disinterest on his rugged face.
Tom slaps the table. “Fucking Jerrod Tyler and Eden! Unbelievable! Do you think he knows his little niece is a junkie?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m more worried about why that pompous prick likes to look down his nose at us whenever he sees us. Acting like we didn’t help his golden boy son get out of his third DUI charge a couple years ago,” Frank says with a brooding glare before lighting up a cigarette. “The least he could do was send us some bottles of his private reserve.”
“Yeah, typical trust fund asshole,” Tom fires back. “What a fucked up family. Don’t forget the whole shit show with the vineyard last year.”
Frank’s face twists and Tom sees the flash of rage cross his face. “Don’t fucking remind men of that mess. Jerrod’s got his head so far up his own ass, he can’t see the forest for the trees. But I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget.”
An aging waitress with support stockings stretched across her swollen calves comes over and takes Frank and Tom’s order. There’s no sense in even looking at the menu anymore. They both always order the same thing: A tuna melt with extra cheese and fries for Tom, a glass of milk and a slice of cherry pie for Frank. The old waitress doesn’t even write down their order, just shuffles back to the kitchen in her orthopedic shoes.
Frank takes another drag of his cigarette, his icy blue eyes sparkling with something that’s equal parts evil and mischief. “But fucked up is our bread and butter, right Tommy? Thanks to people like Jerrod, his brat Pat and now his shining star of a niece, we can run our business in this town.”
Tom shakes his head and tears open a packet of sugar, dumping it on the table for no reason at all. “Yeah, yeah. It’s time for me to adjust my pricing for Eden and her pills. From here on out, it’s double.
She can afford it, being Jerrod Tyler’s niece.”
Frank nods his head thoughtfully, exhaling a puff of smoke out of his nostrils. “I love how certain people in this town think their shit doesn’t stink. Like they don’t put their pants on the same way we do. Jerrod Tyler needs a reminder it’s me he’s called all those times in the wee hours of the morning when Paddy Boy needed to lawyer up. He needs a reminder that he backed out on selling the vineyard. He could’ve been a very rich man and you and I would have too. It’s time someone learns a lesson.”
Tom spins a finger through the pile of crystallized sugar like a bored child. “Fuckin’-a Frank. So what’s your angle? You’ve got that look in your eye.” He asks.
Frank arches one eyebrow and a smile spreads across his face as he emits a throaty chuckle. “Oh I’ll tell you. In due time of course. But you just keep Eden Tyler on the hook. Keep her coming around. I’ve got something in mind.”
When Frank Griffith sets his sights on something or someone for that matter—he goes in for the kill. No questions asked, no ifs, ands or buts. And unbeknownst to me, I’m in his sights. Frank always makes sure he gets what he wants. He’s not afraid to get his hands a little dirty in the process either.
….
Later that evening, as Tom is interviewing fresh blood—a potential client, Frank is awaiting a phone call. He calls this guy when he needs research done and it’s not the kind of research you can get done at the DMV or the library. Frank’s got his long time private investigator on speed dial. Ron Fahey, retired Buffalo cop, back where Frank first got his start in law. At one time, Frank worked at a respectable law practice, before he lost his moral compass and he wound up in Northfield and met Tom. That’s a story for a whole other time. Ron’s not exactly up to snuff on morals either. He runs a gamut of illegal gambling rings between Buffalo and Northfield.
Frank smokes his Marlboro down to the filter before he snuffs it out in the ashtray on his desk. His phone rings and he answers it on the third ring, not appearing too eager or lackadaisical.
“Yeah?” He barks into the phone, voice like turpentine and whiskey.
“Frank, it’s Ron. I got what you called about earlier. I’ll get it out first thing in the morning via Federal Express. You should have it the day after tomorrow.”
“Good,” Frank responds. “Anything pressing I should know before the envelope gets here?”
“Eh, not really, but I’ll let you be the judge. Looks like this woman has some law training herself. Holds a paralegal license. She last worked for that famous NYC prosecutor, Ed Collins. He was the one who tried to put Santa Claus in the nut house last year. You thinking of hiring her?” Ron asks.
Frank grins into the phone. “Something like that. Appreciate you looking into it for me, Fahey. Go ahead and fax me your bill.”
Frank hangs up the phone and leans back in his chair, kicking his cowboy clad feet up on his desk, swiveling his chair lightly from side to side. Like a scene from a movie, Frank flicks the remote to his Bose Wave stereo that sits in the corner and it comes to life, the compact disc inside playing “Under My Thumb” by The Rolling Stones. He chuckles to himself.
Frank had no idea Eden Tyler carried a paralegal’s license. Who would’ve thunk it? He only called Ron because if anyone could find out anything about this newcomer to Northfield broad, it would be him. Frank had an inkling there was more to this woman than her just being a pill head with a wealthy uncle that he happened to hate with every fiber of his being.
As Mick Jagger’s voice swells, Frank allows himself a moment to savor the possibilities. This changes the game. Knowing Eden’s got a background in law makes her far more interesting, even more that she worked for someone like Ed Collins. Dangerous, even. But Frank likes danger. Danger is where he thrives.
Suddenly, the door to Frank’s office busts open and in strides Tom holding his coffee mug that’s light on the coffee and heavy on the whiskey. He looks a little too happy for a man who’s running on four hours of sleep and two packs of Camel Lights.
“What do you want?” Frank growls, knowing his peaceful contemplation has just been interrupted.
“Just got a retainer for a new client,” Tom announces proudly, giving himself a pat on the back.
Frank pretends to be impressed, giving him a half smile. “What’s the situation?”
“Former employee down at the Mini-Mart was fired after the owner suspected him of embezzlement. It’s time to find some loopholes in the system. I know that guy’s a fuckin’ snake. He’s been ripping people off on gas for years,” Tom says, plopping down on the chair across from Frank’s desk.
Frank doesn’t fail to notice the way Tom is jittery, his normally beady blue eyes as big as dinner plates. Frank’s known Tom long enough to know he’s a loose enough cannon when he’s sober. But when high? That’s a whole other level. Tom sniffles, inconspicuously rubbing his nostrils but it’s no use. Frank knows Tom Wolfe better than Tom Wolfe knows himself.
“So did you decide to throw yourself a party? Toot a few lines of coke before you barged in here? What was it you used to say? ‘Never get high on your own supply’? Too bad you’ve never taken your own advice,” Frank states sarcastically.
“Don’t act so smug Frank,” Tom snaps. “I’m taking the real risks around here. If it weren’t for my extracurricular pharmaceutical sales, we wouldn’t be able to keep the lights on in this fucking dump.”
“Right,” Frank’s voice oozes pure sarcasm and venom. “Your little pill pushing side hobby is a liability. You think I don’t know half the shit you move is stolen from the evidence lockers at the Northfield Police Department precinct or from that little dope fiend you were banging that used to work over at Rite-Aid Pharmacy?”
Tom scoffs and shakes his head, knowing he’ll never be the one to get the last laugh when it comes to him and Frank.
Tom sulks in his chair. “I never fucked Whitney Harrison. We had a mutually beneficial agreement before she got shit canned by the pharmacy. Why do you even care? It doesn’t affect you, Frank. And besides, I don’t hear you complaining when you get a cut of the sales.”
Frank decides to change the subject, no longer in the mood for another round of back and forth with Tom. “Well, I just got off the phone with our pal up in Buffalo,” Frank proclaims, arching his eyebrows in intrigue.
Tom leans forward in his chair, suddenly interested in what Frank has to say. “I’m listening.”
“And it turns out that your Percocet popping friend Eden Tyler holds a paralegal’s license,” Frank says simply.
“No shit!” Tom exclaims.
Frank smirks. “Yeah, no shit. You see, I had a feeling there was more than what meets the eye with that one. So I called up Ron. Said he’s gonna overnight us the full dossier tomorrow morning. We should know everything we need to know about her come Thursday.”
“What else did he say?”
“Well,” Frank begins, an evil cigarette strained cackle filling the air. “Miss Tyler last worked for Ed Collins back in the Big Apple.”
“Shit!” Tom huffs in excitement. “That’s the guy who—,”
“Yeah,” Frank holds up a hand to cut him off. “The guy that lost the Kriss Kringle case last year. That arrogant son of a bitch.”
“I was gonna say the guy that looks like he could be your twin,” Tom says nonchalantly.
It’s not the first time someone has pointed out that Ed Collins and Frank Griffith look very eerily similar to one another. Frank heard of Ed’s name long before he ever saw him. The more respectable lawyers Frank used to run with in Buffalo (before he was run out of town, that is) often talked about Ed Collins doing big things in NYC. Last year when everything hit the fan with that Christmas miracle bullshit, it was all over the news, restoring even the most skeptical unbeliever’s hardened heart that Santa Claus was real. It was in all of the major newspapers and publications. Even had its fifteen minutes of fame on TV. That was when Frank noticed he and the astute Ed Collins looked like they could’ve been related. Of course, Frank would never admit it. Frank thought he was far more handsome than Ed. Frank might not have had Ed’s legal eagle dedication or solid reputation. But he had something Ed didn’t have and that was unflappable determination. Whereas the Ed Collins’s of the world would crumble under the slightest pressure, the Frank Griffiths’s of the world would thrive and revel in it.
“You still gonna keep me in the dark on your plan Frankie?” Tom questions Frank.
“Let’s just put it this way,” Frank begins and steeples his fingers. “Jerrod Tyler owes me. He thinks a polite nod every time I run into him in town is enough. But I don’t forget being slighted, so it’s time to get what’s mine. And I’m going to get it through his not-so-innocent little niece.”
Tom grins and shakes his head in agreement. “You really are a twisted bastard, Frank. Here’s to Eden Tyler. That poor girl doesn’t stand a chance.”
Frank chuckles as Mick’s voice swirls through the room, his laughter smug and self-assured. He lights another cigarette with a flick of his gold Zippo lighter and leans back, a picture of a man who’s got the world under his thumb.
Chapter 5: Daddy Issues
Summary:
Frank and Tom get their hands on the much awaited FedEx delivery while Eden plots her next career move.
Chapter Text
The Thursday after Christmas, while I’m flipping through the Northfield Tribune looking for job prospects, hunched over it like it holds the key to my future, Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe are having a field day. In between their wheezing laughter, there’s even a few tears shed by Tom. In the spirit of mean humor of course.
Earlier, the Federal Express delivery man had dropped off their golden egg—a thick overnight envelope filled to the brim with a dossier on one Eden Jillian Tyler-me. Born on June 12, 1959 in New York, New York to the late Jack Tyler and his estranged wife, Barbara Duncan Tyler. It was filled with everything that made me uniquely me: my social security number, a copy of my birth certificate, a grainy copy of my driver’s license, even my high school and community college transcripts.
The two men pour over the contents of the envelope like overgrown boys on Christmas morning.
“Look at this Frankie, it says she was in the Honors Society in high school. My how far she’s fallen,” Tom laughs, holding up a copy of a page out of my senior yearbook, the one with my picture, quote and the things I’ve accomplished listed underneath of it.
Frank chuckles as he pours over the dossier, but he’s really looking for something good. When he finds it, his eyes scan over it like he’s just found one of the wonders of the world.
“Bingo!” Frank hollers, flicking an eight by eleven color photograph, pointing at it with his finger to show Tom. “Looky here. There’s our busy little paralegal in a 1993 official staff portrait for Ed Collins and his glowing team of legal experts.”
Tom takes in the photo, a pleased look crossing his face. Ed stands front and center by the judge’s box in an ancient but immaculate courtroom in Manhattan, his four junior attorneys flanking him on the left, while myself, another paralegal and two legal assistants stand next to him on the right. I remember that day like it was yesterday. Right after that photo was taken, Ed took everyone out to lunch and we got to leave early that day.
Except for me.
No, Ed took me to the Plaza Hotel and screwed me up against one of the windows that overlooks Central Park. We spent the whole night in that suite, fucking like a couple of teenagers and eating room service. At one point, he had me in the bathtub, popping a bottle of Dom Perignon and pouring it all over my body before he licked it off of me. There wasn’t a pore in my body that didn’t glisten with champagne or meet the flick of Ed’s experienced tongue.
Tom’s bloodshot eyes take in the photo and he shrugs his shoulders. “You think they were fucking?”
“Heh!” Frank bristles. “Of course they were. Guys like Ed Collins aren’t satisfied with their stuffy wives. I bet you fifty bucks he was dicking Eden down one day and buying his wife a Lexus the next.”
Tom chuckles, clearly enjoying Frank’s semantics. “You’re probably right.”
Frank smirks, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He flicks the ash into the ashtray, his expression smug as he picks up the photo to study it again. “I can guarantee you Eddie’s wife found out about the affair too. That’s why Miss Tyler’s tight ass got sent packing and probably how she ended up here in Northfield.”
“Right. So she calls her rich uncle and tells him she’s ready to come to Fox Ridge for a new start. It makes perfect sense. Fuck, Frank. You’re too good at this,” Tom compliments him. “Do you think she’s living in the main house with Jerrod, Martha, dumbass Patrick and his wife?”
Frank chortles and takes a long drag of his cigarette and pulverizing it into extinction. “I’m good at everything I do Tom and don’t forget it. No, I bet she’s living down in that guesthouse. That way she can keep her pill problem to herself. If Jerrod got wind his niece was hooked on pills, he’d be upset. He’d go ballistic if he knew you’ve been supplying her with them.”
There’s a moment of silence between the two as they mill over the envelope and then Tom starts to laugh. “Hey, I bet Eden has daddy issues, huh? Her dad kicks the bucket when she’s in her twenties and she doesn’t have a mommy to hold her hand. She’s all alone in the Big Apple and lost. No wonder she went to work for Ed Collins.”
Frank nods, impressed with Tom’s sharpness today on account of the fact that he smells like a men’s urinal and reeks of weed. “Oh the good ones always have daddy issues. I still don’t understand the prescription pill problem but in due time, I’m sure I will,” Frank ponders.
Tom shrugs. “What’s there to understand Frankie? I called Whitney right after I met Eden. Told me she was crying her eyes out in Dr. Carpenter’s parking lot so Whitney told her to come see me over at the pub. I got the impression she had some injury and probably got hooked on them when she was living in the city. She thought maybe she could get a little sympathy from our local doctor but apparently that wasn’t the case.”
“Thanks for the insight, Sherlock,” Frank deadpans. “But I’m going to get to the bottom of this even if it’ll take some time.”
“The good things always do,” Tom offers. “I’ll even be nice and reach out to her and see if she needs a re-up on her Percs.”
“No,” Frank shakes his head in disagreement. “I have a feeling Eden Tyler will set foot in here sooner rather than later and it won’t be for pills either. Let’s just wait this one out.”
Tom doesn’t say anything but he knows how Frank is when he gets that steely look of determination in his eye. There won’t be any convincing him otherwise. Being lawyers in a town like Northfield isn’t easy when most of the townsfolk look down on him and Frank. As often as they butt heads, Tom knows Frank is right. Tom doesn’t mind cooling his jets just like he knows Frank doesn’t mind digging his cowboy boots in on this one.
….
Friday, December 29th, 1995
It’s been a few days since I had lunch with my uncle, but our conversation about my future job prospects still weighs heavy on my mind. As much as I don’t want to go this route, the only thing I know is law. Now that I don’t have a stressful career of working for a prosecutor that I happened to be fucking behind closed doors weighing on my guilty conscience, I can focus. Get the old Eden back. I’ll be sharp again, on the ball. And let’s not forget the pills. They’ve helped. They take my mind off of everything that haunts me, even if it’s only temporarily.
I find myself outside the law office of Griffith and Wolfe, smoking a cigarette from inside my car as I watch the comings and goings. It’s a quiet Friday post Christmas and the only people I’ve seen go in and out of the office is the mailman, a Federal Express delivery man and an older man with a cane. I don’t get the impression gramps came there to get drugs from Tom, but who knows? I’ve been parked here for the last half an hour, wondering if I should go through with this.
I’d dressed up for the occasion too. Just a simple black pantsuit with a white button down blouse, one of the outfits I often wore when I would accompany Ed to court in Manhattan. I pinned my hair back in a low bun, slapped on a little mascara and lipstick too. I look over at the envelope on my passenger seat, the unopened letter of recommendation from Ed that I’ve been carrying around for almost a month.
I snatch that and my resume off the seat and get out of the car, flicking my cigarette to the pavement as I walk up to the front door of the law office. Upon opening it, I find Tom watering the dying ficus tree while a cigarette dangles from his lips. He looks up when he sees me and a smile crosses his face.
“Eden! Back already?” Tom greets me in a chipper tone.
“Yeah, but not for that,” I respond, making sure he knows I’m not there to score. I’m here on official business.
“Really?” Tom laughs mockingly. “And what exactly are you here for? Because I know it’s not the company.”
I hate being in this position. I scowl at Tom but I count to five in my head before I speak. “I wanted to talk to you and Frank both. Maybe about a job.”
Tom lifts an eyebrow in intrigue. “A job? What, did you just pass the bar exam or something?”
“No. I’m a paralegal. Well, I was before I moved here. Now I’m ready to get back to work. I’ve got everything you need to see right here,” I reply, passing him my resume, but holding onto Ed’s letter.
Tom looks at me in disbelief and his eyes briefly scan the resume before he sighs in annoyance. “Fine, let me go fetch Frank. Feel free to have a seat.”
He stomps off down the hallway and I hear the opening and closing of a door. I don’t know how long I sit there in the grungy reception area, at least ten minutes, maybe more, before I hear Tom yell my name down the hallway. The jackass is too lazy to get off his ass and come get me. Instead, he stands in the open doorway at the end of the hallway and I head that way.
“Come on in,” Tom orders me with a repugnant looking smirk on his splotchy mug.
Behind a large desk sits Frank Griffith, feet kicked up on his desk, revealing expensive looking black leather cowboy boots. He’s wearing a pressed white button down with vertical lines running down them, a black suit vest and a pair of black suit pants. He’s in the middle of a phone call, completely oblivious to my presence. Little do I know, he’s not actually talking to anyone other than a faint dial tone. Frank’s sneaky like that.
“Sorry, but Frank’s got a needy client on the other end of the line,” Tom chimes in as he leans against one side of Frank’s desk, pocketing his hands in his crinkled dress slacks.
Frank’s office is the polar opposite of Tom’s. Whereas Tom’s office looks like a bomb went off inside of it, Frank’s office is well lit, a large set of windows that overlook Saywer Avenue and the post office building across the street. On the walls are framed degrees and various pieces of artwork. Frank’s office looks like the typical lawyer’s office. Clean but with that calculating sterile look that shows a man who means business.
After a couple of minutes of hearing Frank say things like ”Sure”, “You can bet your sweet sister’s ass”, “Right” and finally, ”Goodbye”, he hangs up the phone and looks in my direction.
“Eden Tyler,” Frank’s low voice is full of charm and he smiles at me. “Tom says you’re here to talk business.”
I take a deep breath and smile at him.
“Yes sir. I brought my resume with me. I’m a paralegal.”
“Let’s skip the formalities, shall we?” Frank begins as Tom passes him the resume that he pretends like he didn’t already read. “Just call me Frank.”
I nod my head in agreement. “Ok, Frank.”
Frank smirks and tosses my resume on the desk. “So, a paralegal huh? Working in Manhattan? How the fuck did you end up out here in the boonies on your rich uncle’s farm?”
For a man who presents such a polished image, Frank’s vernacular doesn’t exactly scream the sophisticated and cultured man to go along with his outward appearance, even if he is like an oil slick in an expensive suit.
I choose to give Frank and Tom the abridged version of my work history with the Manhattan district attorney’s office, and working for Ed Collins. The less I say, the better off I am. And if things get to be too much, I’ll just pass them the letter of recommendation from Frank’s dead ringer. Frank watches me, steepling his fingers in authority, while Tom yawns in boredom.
“Ed Collins?” Frank inquires with a smirk. “You worked for the Ed Collins? Wow. The big shot who tried to nab Santa Claus last year.”
“Yes,” I respond with a sigh. “I have a letter here that Ed wrote for me if you’d like to read it.”
Tom takes the envelope from me and turns it over in his hand and passes it off to Frank, who uses a shiny brass letter opener on it while he watches me the whole time, a look of intrigue on his face. I try not to stare too hard into those pale eyes of his, the way they glisten all shark like. Frank pulls out the letter with precision and I wonder for the first time just what Ed has written on my behalf.
”To whom it may concern,” Frank starts, his voice exaggeratedly formal, ”’I am writing to recommend Eden Tyler for a paralegal position within your firm that she may be seeking. Having worked with Eden on numerous occasions over the last six years, I can attest to her diligence, intelligence and sharp legal mind. Eden possesses a rare combination of practical knowledge and keen instincts, which in my opinion, makes her an ideal candidate for the legal community. Her ability to anticipate any issues before they arise, coupled with her clear and effective communication skills will be an asset to your team.’”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Tom sighs. “We’ve heard this sort of shit before.”
Frank shoots Tom a snide glare before turning his attention back to me. “Well, sounds like Eddie Collins here speaks very highly of you. I’m sure you spent a whole lotta numerous occasions with him over the years, huh?”
My pulse quickens at the insinuation and I find my face twisting into something unpleasant. Frank knows he’s found my hot button.
“Relax sweetheart. Besides, you’ve got a letter from Ed Collins. King Shit himself. He might as well handed you the keys to Emerald City,” Frank laughs.
“He knows I’m good at what I do,” I respond flatly, doing my best to keep my cool.
Frank kicks his legs off of his desk and leans forward in his chair, really smirking at me now as his eyes rake me over. “Yeah? I bet he knows a lot more than that, doesn’t he? Maybe he’s even a little too familiar with you, if you catch my drift.”
Tom cackles as he picks at his grimy looking fingernails. I feel my face flush as the two men leer at me and exchange a knowing look between the two of them.
“Just read the letter,” I snap.
Frank doesn’t seem bothered by my sharp tone. Hell, his eyes practically glimmer now. He clears his throat and continues reading the letter, his voice dripping with absolute sarcasm.
”’Beyond her professional qualifications, I can also speak to her character. Eden is a young woman of integrity and passion. She has shown great resilience in the face of adversity. I have no doubt that she will thrive in any environment and bring the same dedication to your firm that she brought to the prosecutor’s office for the last six years. I hope you will consider my letter of recommendation a testament to her dedication and character. Respectfully, Edward Collins, United States District Attorney.’”
“Resilience? Is that what we calling it?” Tom questions, his blue eyes in a haze like he’s coming down from whatever he’s drank or snorted before I arrived.
“And don’t forget the passion too, Tommy,” Frank responds with a snicker. “That’s what it’s all about. Passion. Dedication. Loyalty. Knowing your place in line and knowing when to keep your mouth shut.”
“Fine goddamnit!” I holler. “What else do you want? I need a job, ok? So I’d appreciate it if you’d stop patronizing me like a couple of dickheads!”
Frank’s eyes gleam and he licks his lips as he looks from me to Tom.
“There’s that passion Ed was talking about,” Tom states sardonically.
Frank nods at Tom. “I like her already Tom.” Then he turns his focus back to me, “You’re sharp, I’ll give you that. On the ball. But here’s the deal, honey. Working at Griffith and Wolfe is a whole different ball game compared to whatever the fuck you did for Ed Collins. We don’t always take on the most legitimate clients. We need someone who understands that sometimes, you’ve gotta use unconventional methods to get what you want out of people.”
In one hand, I’m humiliated, pissed off even. These two fools and their back and forth mockery is enough to make me want to set gasoline to this whole place and burn it down, with Frank and Tom left inside to fend for themselves. On the other hand, Ed’s words ring true. I am intelligent and sharp, instinctually aware, a woman who’s dedicated to the cause, if it’s worth her time. Sure, I could tell them both to get fucked and snatch my resume and Ed’s letter off of Frank’s desk before I storm out and go pound the pavement towards the other couple of law offices in Northfield.
I’m sure they’d hire me too. But those sort of attorneys are always in cahoots with Ed Collins. The fact that men of Frank and Tom’s caliber knew who Ed Collins was, was enough proof. The more professional lawyers in this town probably run in the same social circles as Ed does and would eventually start asking too many questions. It would be a matter of time before I found myself behind closed doors, three stuffy older men staring me down and making me feel uncomfortable. At least with Frank and Tom, they’ve already both correctly assumed Ed and I were having an affair. And they couldn’t care less. They have a way of making you feel uncomfortable before you even walk through the door.
And maybe that’s why I feel a strange sort of kinship with Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe. It’s one thing to score prescription pills from Tom. It’s a whole other thing to prove myself to Frank. Truthfully, I’ve been drawn to this chaotic place long before this defining moment. Maybe this wasn’t the milestone moment in my career that I envisioned, but for now, it’s enough. For now, it’s all I’ve got.
“Take the weekend to mull it over if you’d like,” Frank says to break the silence. “Then come back on Monday and we’ll talk.”
“That won’t be necessary. I want the job,” I say and it’s not a request.
Frank stands up, a pleased smile on his face and stretches his hand across the desk. “Welcome aboard Eden.”
There’s no official paperwork, nothing to be notarized. Just a firm handshake and the unshakable feeling like I’m getting ready to climb into bed with the devil. And just maybe, I’m where I’m supposed to be.
….
At dinner that evening, I decide to break the good news to my family about my new job. Aunt Martha’s fork clangs noisily off of her fine china, Caroline scoffs at me and Patrick takes a hearty gulp of wine upon hearing the names Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe. However, it’s my uncle’s reaction that surprises me the most. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me blankly. I expected uncle Jerrod to get a little riled up, maybe even shake his head in disgust. But he just plies forward with the dinner on his plate as I tell them all that I start on Monday.
“That sounds like an…interesting experience,” Martha says to break the silence. “I know Mr. Griffith and his partner have been in town for quite some time. I’m sure you’ll find your footing.”
Patrick, never at a loss for words, decides he’s not feeling well and needs to go lie down. Caroline joins him a few moments later, spending another dinner pushing her food around on her plate. I guess she’s still going for the Dukan Diet bullshit.
“What do you think uncle Jerrod?” I ask him.
Jerrod doesn’t say anything right away, just cuts into the filet mignon Martha had “cooked”, with Christina’s aid of course.
“Well, you went out and found a job. That’s all that matters,” Jerrod says, a vacant look in his eyes.
“I figured maybe you all would show a little more excitement since I won’t be sitting around here all day,” I offer.
“Well you thought wrong Eden,” Jerrod says, his look stern but his tone as even as possible. “I already told you what kind of men Frank and Tom are. But I guess you’re the kind of person who needs to find out for yourself.”
Aunt Martha, sensing the tension in the room, decides to vacate the premises too, leaving me alone with my uncle.
“Ok, what’s really on your mind uncle Jerrod? Might as well just come out and say it.”
My uncle exhales sharply and leans back in his chair. “Goddamnit Eden, Frank Griffith is a scumbag! And Tom Wolfe is the dirt that scumbag walks on! Why in the hell did you go and get yourself mixed up with them? Do you realize what you’ve done?”
I can feel my irritation rising. “I haven’t done anything! But maybe you should start by telling me what Patrick’s done. It seems like he’s on a familiar basis with Frank and Tom.”
“That’s none of your business,” Jerrod shoots back, his voice dangerously low. “You better be more worried about yourself. I’m telling you Eden, if I find out you’re heading down their crooked path, your ass will be out of here so fast your head’ll spin. Got that?”
This is the first time my uncle’s ever been so direct with me. I remembered my dad and him having some disagreements over the years, how my uncle looked down his nose at my dad’s own humble career and way of life. My dad and uncle were both raised in a low income family. After high school, uncle Jerrod headed to college on a scholarship out in California. Ended up going into real estate and then started working for a vineyard. When he moved back to New York, he bought the aging Fox Ridge Vineyard for next to nothing. The place was a jungle and had been in a state of disrepair for decades. My uncle said he’d return it to its glory. Later on he’d use the land he cleared to put in the Christmas tree farm. My dad went a different route after high school. He went straight to work for the airlines and was content with his blue collar way of life.
It seems like that same smugness my uncle used to reserve for my dad, is now directed at me. Uncle Jerrod’s just been good at hiding it over the years. He’s still my uncle and the closest thing I’ll have to a dad, but it still pisses me off.
“Fine, you’ve made your point,” I respond coolly, pushing my chair back with a loud screech. “But remember this. It’s my life to figure out. Thanks for the concern.”
I toss my napkin on the table and walk off, not bothering to say anything else, not offering to help my aunt clean anything up. On my way down to the guesthouse, I light a cigarette and look up at the sky. It’s a beautiful winter evening, the sky as dark as onyx and stars glittering in the sky. The moon holds center stage in all of its silver, ambient glory. I have a feeling that things are about to change and I’m not sure if it’s for the better or worse.
Chapter 6: Sympathy For the Devils
Summary:
Let’s take a look into Tom Wolfe & Frank Griffith’s pasts and how they ended up in Northfield.
Notes:
There’s no Eden in this chapter just a backstory of these two twisted attorneys at law!
Chapter Text
The Makings of Tom Wolfe: An Intimate Portrait
Tom Wolfe’s earliest memory in life was the sound of his father’s voice. Smooth, even and commanding—the perfect voice for a salesman. But Gerald Wolfe wasn’t just a salesman, he was a day trader working on Wall Street during the height of its glory in the 1960s. The short and rotund man had a fiery personality and the will to get things done.
“Sell it all. Don’t get greedy. Pull the trigger,” Gerald barked numbers into the phone to some unseen figure while sitting in his study at their comfortable home in Long Island.
Little Tom would peek around the doorframe, watching with rapt enthusiasm as his father made his living. It was a comfortable kind of living too, Tom’s mother Regina was a stay at home mom who spent her days getting manicures and lunching with the Ladies of Long Island Social Club. Life was good.
Until it wasn’t. Gerald walked into his study one morning, not to work but instead to swallow a bullet from his Colt revolver. Tom was only eight years old.
Regina Wolfe wore all black for two straight weeks before boxing up all of Gerald’s possessions and hocking them at various pawn shops in the city. She took Tom with her so he could learn a life lesson. Tom didn’t know what it meant to lose his father, not at first. He only knew that his mother’s once cushy lifestyle was crumbling in the blink of an eye and she traded her afternoons of bridge games and gin and tonics for secretary work at a cleaning company.
“Your father was a coward,” she hissed one night at him, voice slurred from too many whiskey sours. “He left me to clean up his mess. Don’t ever forget that, Thomas. This world’s full of takers and quittasand I wont have my boy being a quitta.”
That conversation would lay the groundwork for the rest of his life. Regina Wolfe didn’t raise quitters and Tom knew at that point the only way to succeed in life was by taking.
Tom learned the art of the hustle from his mother. By the time he was 10, he pawned the last of his father’s solid gold cufflinks to help make ends meet. Not long after that, he took a newspaper route because his mom said it was time for him to earn his keep around the house. At 13, he was skipping school and selling stolen cigarettes to older kids, pocketing the cash for his ”rainy day fund”. While other kids his age were still dependent on allowances or the occasional babysitting or yard work job, Tom was making his own money. Tom didn’t mind continuing to help his mother out financially. After all, Tom Wolfe was the man of the house now.
By the time Tom arrived at Hofstra University on a partial scholarship in 1977, he knew there were only two absolutes in life: life was a game and the rules were for suckers.
One day, Tom shuffled into the back row of his criminal law class, a hangover pounding behind his eyes. His professor, a wiry man with a passion for lectures, droned on about tort law while Tom’s fingers tapped impatiently on his desk.
He hadn’t been to class in over a week. Between running deliveries for a local dealer and hosting poker games in his off-campus apartment, his schedule left little room for academia. Law school was just another hustle, a means to an end. The degree didn’t matter; it was the connections, the doors it could open.
“Mr. Wolfe,” the professor called out, his voice slicing through Tom’s haze.
Tom blinked, a lazy smirk forming as he leaned back in his chair. “Present.”
The class chuckled, but the professor wasn’t amused. “Perhaps you’d like to explain the finer points of negligence law to your peers?”
Tom grinned, his charm slipping into gear like a well-oiled machine. “Negligence, huh? That’s when someone screws up but not enough to get thrown in jail, right?”
The class erupted in laughter, and even the professor had to suppress a smile. Tom had always known how to disarm people.
Outside the university’s lecture halls, young Tom Wolfe was building an empire. His off-campus apartment that he shared with two other dudes doubled as a drop-off point for everything from weed to Valium. Law students, undergrads, even professors came to the grungy apartment for an occasional fix. During those days, Tom didn’t use much himself, not at first. He’d dealt with too many dope heads first hand and he needed a clear head to keep us his master salesman routine.
“Supply and demand,” he told his roommate late one night as they counted through a small mountain of crumpled bills on the coffee table. “It’s the first law of economics and the only one that matters.”
Tom made it through his time at Hofstra barely by the skin of his teeth, but he got his law degree. Putting it to use would be another story. He worked for a small time firm in the city as a legal assistant when he wasn’t dealing drugs. His superiors liked him. They knew Tom was the kind of young man who would be going places. In spite of his often sloppy outward appearance, Tom had the gift of gab. It’s what made him so popular and well liked.
But 26 year old Tom got canned after sleeping with a client’s teenage daughter. Thankfully for him, the girl was 18. Technically legal, but morally? Let’s just say his bosses weren’t impressed. Out of a job and with few options, he turned to a smaller law office in Brooklyn, the kind of place where nobody asked too many questions.
(Tom getting canned from his first law office job )
There Tom thrived—or survived at least. He wasn’t technically a lawyer since he still hadn’t passed the bar exam. But that didn’t stop him from practicing anyway while the senior partner looked the other way. Most clients didn’t care, they just needed someone to represent them that sounded convincing enough and Tom delivered. His law degree from Hofstra, prominently displayed on the wall behind him, was all the proof they needed.
Tom was proud of his career even if he wasn’t an actual lawyer. He was living the good life again, earning his own money at the firm, not to mention the drug trade. His extracurricular social activities began to escalate from the occasional joint or line of cheap cocaine. He turned to harder substances like prescription painkillers, high grade coke, even heroin a few times. The drugs never dulled his quick wit though. He used alcohol to get through his days at the firm.
By the time Tom turned 30 in February 1988, the senior partner at the firm was eyeing retirement. Tom knew he needed to legitimize himself if he wanted to continue on. Against all odds, he finally sat for the bar exam in May 1988 and came out on the other side for the better. By then, Tom was starting to feel the effects of his party boy lifestyle, but he never lost his edge nor his charm. He started working in estate planning for the law firm, helping older clients out with their end of life plans. It was there he found his schtick.
“Got a widow out in the country who’s looking for someone out of town to handle her will,” his boss told him one day. “It’s about a 90 minute drive northwest, in a town called Northfield. Think you can be up there tomorrow at 10am to meet with her?”
Nothing good happened before noon in Tom’s eyes but he assured his boss he would be there on time. Armed with an address and a map, he awoke bright and early the next morning (after taking a couple hits of coke to get his motor up and pumping) and took off in his beat up Honda Civic hatchback to find this mystery town.
The widow lived in a Victorian home on the outskirts of town. Maude Anderson, age 75, knew she was in the end stages of her life. She’d been widowed for years and recently diagnosed with cancer. The marriage never produced any children of her own, but her late husband had a couple of kids from a previous relationship and Maude would be damned if those heathens got a penny of what was left of her estate.
She didn’t like Tom, not right away. She thought he looked like an imposter in a cheap suit and knew she smelled booze on his breath during their first meeting. Not only that, he was 10 minutes late and Maude was a stickler for punctuality.
It took a few rides out to Northfield over the course of a month for Tom to work to gain her trust. By the end of that last meeting, she and Tom were trading war stories: Maude reflected on her late husband and the jazz clubs they used to frequent in the city while Tom told her about his late father Gerald and his “eye opening experiences” in law school.
“You know Tommy, the first time I saw you, I didn’t think much,” Maude admitted to him one day as they sat on her sweeping porch one warm July day, sipping homemade lemonade. “You were late and I think you’d been drinking.”
“You’re probably right,” Tom laughed.
“I’m always right. But I also saw you had potential. And I trust you to do what’s right with my will when I’m gone from here.” With that, Maude reached over and squeezed Tom’s hand.
Tom started making the trek to Northfield on a weekly basis, even taking Maude back to the city for cancer treatments. The two had grown close. Maude thought she gained a son, Tom thought he gained a golden ticket. See, even then, Tom knew the value of cultivating interpersonal relationships. Throw in a well timed compliment here and there and always do so with a bright smile. He’d bring her flowers and chocolates with each visit. Sometimes he’d take her back to the city to see a show on Broadway, toting her on his arm like she was a supermodel.
It wasn’t long after that Tom did the unthinkable: he charmed the girdle off of ‘ol Maude. He didn’t think much of it at first since he was so jazzed up on coke before he went in for the kill. But surprisingly, having sex with a woman who was 45 years his senior wasn’t as bad as he thought. It took Maude a while to get good and greased up, but once she did…boy! It was like riding a fucking Slip ‘N Slide!
The old broad might’ve been dying, but she was also dying to fuck! She didn’t care that Tom lost his erection a few times that first night. She plopped her dentures on the bedside table and went down on him every time he lost his hard-on. Poor Tom had to drink Gatorade to replenish the electrolytes he lost during his first trip to pound town with Maude.
Maude held him close to her breast afterwards, stroking his sweat matted strawberry blonde locks as they laid in the aftermath of their romp. The room smelled like whiskey, Tom’s cigarettes, Vicks Vapo-Rub, Ben Gay and the scent of their lustful sex. It was a distinct smell that Tom would never forget.
“My sweet Tommy,” she called him. No one else had ever called him Tommy before. (Until he got to know Frank Griffith.)
After that night, Tom started calling her “Ma”. By the time he helped Ma draft her final will, she’d given him the keys to her well maintained but barely driven 1984 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. He started spending most weekends in Northfield, not failing to notice the future endeavors he might get involved in if he decided to stick around.
Maude died in 1990 and left her entire estate to one Thomas Gerald Wolfe. He had enough cash to live comfortably for a while, as well as the keys to her house. Tom decided to abandon his law career in the city and move to Northfield permanently. The quiet town was the perfect place to set up shop. He’d observed enough of the townspeople on his visits to see Maude. It didn’t take long for Tom to make a couple of unsavory connections in Northfield and start a pipeline for his drug sales.
Not long after Tom got settled into his new digs, he crossed paths with Frank Griffith. He’d seen him around town a few times in a black Lincoln, slowly cruising the streets like he was on the prowl. He’d even asked Maude about him while she was still alive.
“Frank Griffith’s a snake in human form. I called him first for my estate planning but I didn’t trust that son of a bitch so I extended my search to the city.” Maude told him honestly.
But those words only intrigued a man like Tom Wolfe. Real recognizes real, right? If Frank was a shady lawyer, he’d meet his match in Tom. It didn’t take long after Maude died for Tom to introduce himself one day while he saw Frank at Faye’s Diner. Then 50 year old Frank sat at a booth in the back, nursing a glass of milk, a cigarette and a slice of cherry pie.
Tom slid into the booth without an invitation. Frank gave him a dirty look and spewed a mushroom cloud of Marlboro smoke in his face. “What the hell do you want?”
Tom grinned and stuck his hand across the table at Frank. “Tom Wolfe, attorney. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Is that right?” Frank drawled, not bothering to return the handshake. “And what exactly have you heard?”
“Oh, just that you’re a greasy and sneaky guy. But it’s alright, I’ve been called worse myself. I’m ready to bring an energy to your law office that I guarantee you’ve never seen before,” Tom humble bragged.
Frank gave him a slippery smile then. The balls on this kid, Frank thought to himself. And after that day, Frank found he had a confidant in Tom. By the end of the month, he turned Frank Griffith, Attorney At Law into Griffith & Wolfe, Attorneys At Law.
For both men, it would be the beginning of a fruitful relationship. Or so they thought. It didn’t take long for Frank to realize Tom was a walking liability. Sure, he had charm and smarts. But he also had a drinking and drug problem. Frank had to keep Tom on a leash and a man like Frank didn’t have the patience for that bullshit. In turn, Tom learned of Frank’s control freak ways and explosive side when double crossed. Frank held grudges like no other. No one was safe from Frank’s wrath if they slighted him.
But in spite of their flaws, both men knew no one else would want to partner with them. No one with lauds that is. But you know what they always say: opposites attract.
….
Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself, I’m A Man With A Taste: The Rise of Frank Griffith
Growing up in Buffalo post World War II would’ve been tough for any kid, even tougher for a scrappy young man who was the youngest of three boys. Franklin “Frank” Hayes Griffith grew up in an impoverished suburb outside of Buffalo. Frank’s father, Harold, was a steel man who worked long hours smelting molten metal at the factory. His mother, Mabel, worked for a wealthy family as their housekeeper. She’d spend her days on her knees scrubbing their filth off of the expensive flooring until it shined. At night, she chain smoked in front of the black and white television while Frank and his older two brothers Charlie and Jimmy fought over the last pork chop.
Frank was left to his own devices most of the time. Charlie and Jimmy often beat up other kids in the neighborhood or loitered outside of the corner store, but Frank knew he was different. He didn’t have the patience for mischief or muscle to brawl with. What he had was a sharp tongue and an uncanny ability to read people.
By the time he was eight, Frank had figured out how to turn every situation into an opportunity. When his classmates complained about their parents cutting back on sweets, Frank showed up at school with a pocketful of black-market candy bars he’d swiped from the local pharmacy. He sold them for twice their value, pocketing the difference and earning himself a reputation as “the kid who could get you anything.”
By 12, he was running bets for older boys in the neighborhoods. Charlie had taught him the basics of hustling at the pool hall and it wasn’t long before he surpassed his brother in skill. He didn’t just play the game—he studied it, watching how people moved, how they lied, and how they folded under pressure.
“Frankie, you’re a natural,” Charlie once said, clapping his younger brother on the back. But even then, Frank knew he was destined for more than hustling small-town pool tables.
Frank graduated high school in 1958. By then, things started to slow down in Buffalo before the steel industry faltered. He knew he didn’t want to end up working at the steel mill like his dad and his brother Jimmy. Charlie had died a couple of years before after contracting meningitis.
He took a job at a local bar, tending to blue-collar regulars and charming tips out of them with his quick wit and devil-may-care grin. It was there while pouring drinks and listening to drunk men spill their secrets, that Frank discovered the power of leverage.
“Everybody’s got a weakness,” his boss, an aging bartender named Lou, once told him. “Figure out what it is, and you can make ‘em dance.”
Frank took that advice to heart.
In 1961, after years of saving every penny and charming his way into recommendation letters, Frank landed a spot at New York Law School. He moved to the city with a duffel bag, a secondhand suit, and a hunger that set him apart from his classmates.
While other students buried their noses in case law, Frank worked part time as a doorman at a nightclub in Greenwich Village. It wasn’t just about the money—though he needed it—it was about connections. He mingled with the club’s patrons, a mix of artists, mobsters, and businessmen, learning the art of persuasion from every conversation.
“Law is just hustling in a suit,” he told one of his classmates during a study session. “The key is to make people believe they’re winning, even when you’re taking them for all they’re worth.”
By the time he graduated in 1964, Frank didn’t just have a law degree, he had established himself as a man who got things done. After passing his bar exam, he got to work at a small criminal defense firm in the city taking whatever cases that that the senior partners passed off on him. He cut his teeth on those cases—petty larcenies, drug charges and disorderly conduct. But Frank saw every client as a stepping stone, every case as a chance to learn the system and exploit its weaknesses.
It didn’t take long for him to climb the ranks. He became known as the guy who could “make problems disappear,” whether it was for a desperate single mother or a shady businessman. He didn’t care who they were or what they’d done—what mattered was what they could offer him in return.
When 1970 rolled around, Frank got the heartbreaking call from back home in Buffalo. His mother had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease and had no one left but Frank. His father had died years ago of lung cancer and Jimmy ended up enlisting in the Army and being shipped off to Vietnam where he ended up dying right after Frank graduated law school. So he packed up his things and headed back home, determined to care for his ailing mother and make connections with people who knew him as “the kid who can get you anything.” Except he was no longer a kid, but a 30 year old man with one bad marriage under his belt.
Back in Buffalo, he hired expensive round-the-clock care for his mother while he worked hard to restore his old connections. Most of Frank’s school buddies had graduated from petty crimes into more organized criminal ventures. He used those connections to play both sides of the law. In 1972, Frank went to work for a law firm ran by two legal maestros: Dick Rhodes and Marshall Bell. Within a couple of years they became Rhodes, Bell & Griffith.
In 1975, all was running smoothly. Frank’s mom was stable in her disease and Frank had his eyes on wife number two: an exotic dancer 12 years his junior he met while on a quick business trip to Toronto. He fell in love with her the first time he laid eyes on her. He persuaded her to stop dancing and to enjoy the fruits of being a lawyer’s wife, proposing to her after only three months of courtship.
Frank, ever the opportunist, didn’t really mean it though. Tired of paying for full time care for his mother, he instead enlisted his new bride to help care for her while he was working. Mrs. Frank Griffith thought life would be cushy until she found herself hearing the same stories every day from her combative mother-in-law while Frank spent long hours away from home. But every time she threatened to leave him, Frank would just placate her with gifts. A new bracelet here, a new car, even a new set of tits that she didn’t ask for.
One day Frank came back from a business trip to Los Angeles and his wife told him she was pregnant. Frank wasn’t looking to be a father, so he demanded she get an abortion. When she refused, he served her with divorce papers. The stress of the divorce caused his wife to miscarry and Frank was unmoved. There was no way in hell he’d be responsible for raising a child that probably wasn’t even his to begin with. Because Frank was smart, he made her sign a prenuptial agreement before they walked down the aisle at Saint Joseph’s Catholic Church. In the end, the former Mrs. Frank Griffith #2 got nothing, other than a one way Greyhound ticket back to Canada. The marriage was officially dissolved in 1979.
In 1980, it was a new decade and marked the year Frank would turn 40. His mother had passed away over the summer and he a free man again—fully committed to his rise in power and as ruthless as ever. By 1982, Frank’s name was a force to be reckoned with in the legal circles of Buffalo. He was the man everyone turned to when they needed results.
But all good things must come to an end. Frank had started making too many shady connections that were catching the eyes of his law partners. In 1985, they hit Frank with the grave news: either get out of town now or we’ll take these charges to the district attorney. See, Frank had gotten involved with a client, a construction magnate in Buffalo who wasn’t exactly a model citizen. When the rumors swirled that the man had become the target of a federal investigation, the rat started to squeak under pressure.
Facing a hefty prison sentence at Leavenworth, the man gave up names. Lots of them. One happened to be Frank Griffith, his personal lawyer for the last four years. It was discovered during the investigation that Frank had been helping his client evade taxes amongst other things, all while taking bribes.
Frank wasn’t worried at first. He’d covered his tracks, or so he thought. But the snitch had evidence—bank transfers, signed documents, even cassette tape recorded conversations. Frank was blindsided when his own partners, Dick Rhodes and Marshall Bell, confronted him in their corner office one Friday afternoon.
(Frank being confronted in Buffalo)
“Frank,” Rhodes said, his voice low but firm, “We can’t keep doing this. You’re dragging us down, and the feds are sniffing around the firm now.”
Marshall Bell leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigar like it was a normal day. “You’ve been good for us, Frank. Hell, you’ve been great. But you’ve also made us a target. And we’re not going down with you.”
Frank’s temper flared. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? That son of a bitch is full of shit, and you two are too spineless to back me up! After everything I’ve done for this firm—”
Bell cut him off. “We’re cutting you loose, Frank. It’s not personal. Just business. Unless you want to end up going to prison for the next twenty years and getting a dick up your ass, you better leave town.”
Frank laughed, bitter and cold. “You think you can just shove me out? I’ll bury this firm. I’ll bury both of you!”
But Rhodes was already sliding a folder across the desk. “It’s done. You can either resign quietly, or we hand this over to the D.A.”
Frank opened the folder and froze. Inside was a dossier—his dossier. Every shady deal, every backroom favor, every unethical move he’d made over the past decade, meticulously documented. They’d been building a case against him for years. Rhodes and Bell told Frank they would make it all disappear but at a cost. These two men weren’t exactly lawful themselves and extorted $50,000 from Frank. He hated them but the idea of spending a good chunk of his prime in prison wasn’t something Frank could do.
He was trapped, and they both knew it.
The next morning, Frank was gone. Officially, he “stepped down” from the firm to pursue other opportunities. Unofficially, he was blackballed. Rhodes and Bell made sure of it, quietly spreading the word that Frank Griffith was toxic, a liability no one could afford, all the while splitting the fifty thousand between them.
Frank packed his life into the trunk of his Lincoln Town Car and drove out of Buffalo with a lit cigarette and no clear destination. He’d lost everything—his reputation, his connections, his home. But as he sped down the highway, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior, he made a promise to himself.
Buffalo might have chewed him up and spit him out, but Frank Griffith wasn’t done. He’d start over somewhere new, rebuild his empire, and make sure that the next time someone tried to take him down, they’d regret it.
One night as he sat inside of a dingy motel room halfway between Buffalo and New York City, he studied a road map. The town of Northfield seemed unassuming enough just by name. Frank made the trek to that part of the state as part of a scouting mission to see if he could make it out there. Once he arrived in the sleepy town, he knew he’d found his niche. Northfield was the kind of place where he could set up shop and forge new connections, even call in some favors back home in Buffalo. Dick Rhodes and Marshall Bell didn’t burn all of Frank’s bridges, at least not the illegal ones.
Frank still had his license to practice law intact and as long as he had that, he was untouchable. It took a few phone calls and a few covert meetings back in Buffalo, but by the time 1986 rolled around, Frank had set up his own law practice in town that was starting to take off. The town of Northfield had plenty of secrets. The stuffy family law firm, Elgin and Elgin didn’t always want the unpalatable cases. Neither did Crocker, Davis and Thurston. That’s where Frank came in.
Frank didn’t mind those type of cases, those were his kind of people. Frank would do the unmentionable and unthinkable to complete the impossible: making sure his clients stayed out of jail. Frank didn’t like to discuss his business secrets or how he was able to get results. As far as his clients were concerned, they just needed to keep fat little envelopes of cash coming his way.
One particular instance was in April 1986. Frank had spent the night at the office and received a call at 3am. He groggily answered the phone and lit a cigarette.
“My name’s Jerrod Tyler. My son Patrick’s gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. He got arrested for drunk driving. I don’t know who else to call,” came the pained voice on the other end of the line.
Frank didn’t know Jerrod, not officially. He’d heard his name plenty of times in town and even driven past Jerrod’s vineyard and farm regularly. Frank knew Jerrod was one of the power players in town and if he was calling him to make this mess go away, it’s because he had nowhere else to turn.
The Tyler name was important in town. A lot of Northfield citizens were on Jerrod’s payroll, employees of the vineyard and Christmas tree farm. Jerrod did a lot for his community and gave back every chance he could. But he also had the reputation of not wanting to expose his own family’s skeletons. Everyone knew the main skeleton was his 26 year old perpetual fuck up son, Patrick.
Frank made the first drunk driving charge go away easily. The arresting officer was a rookie cop and Frank personally assured him Jerrod would donate money to the police department’s equipment fund. By the end of the day, Patrick had his license back and Jerrod was stroking a check for ten grand: five of that for Frank, the other five for the police department. Jerrod wasn’t keen on it but he didn’t argue.
Jerrod would be cordial when he saw Frank in town but just enough. Otherwise, he didn’t want to be caught associating with him. But he sure as hell didn’t mind calling Frank again a little more than a year later in August of 1987 when Patrick rear ended a minivan on Main Street with a mother and her two small children inside, all while reeking of bourbon.
“Frank, it’s Jerrod Tyler. Patrick’s done it again. This time he’s hit a woman with her kids in the car! Can you help us?” Jerrod’s voice whispered shamefully into the phone.
“Jesus Christ Jerrod, you ever think about shipping this brat of yours off to rehab? Or maybe keep him off the road? A mom and kids, huh? That’s not going to go over too well. Let me see what I can do,” Frank asssured him even though sounded annoyed.
But when Frank Griffith hung up the phone, he chuckled to himself and made the drive over to the police department to see how bad the situation was.
“Hey man, you gonna get me outta here?” Patrick asked with bloodshot eyes and a sheepish grin.
“Don’t ’hey man’ me you little shit,” Frank hissed through the bars of the holding cell where Patrick had been sleeping his latest drunken escapade off. “Do you have any idea how much this is gonna cost me—uh, I mean cost your daddy?”
Frank’s next move was to track down the mother whose car Patrick had hit. She was understandably furious but Frank was a master of persuasion.
“Mrs. Carrington, I understand your outrage. I would be too. But let’s be honest, taking this whole thing to court won’t look good. Patrick Tyler’s father has connections and he’ll use them against you to make sure his son gets off scot-free while dragging you through the mud,” Frank said with a sympathetic smile.
“Here’s what I propose: Patrick will take care of your medical bills and your car repairs. How about we throw in a little something extra for your trouble? Say twenty grand?”
The desperate mother’s eyes widened at the number. Little did Frank know, she was a single mom and that kind of money would come in handy. “And what happens to that piece of shit?”
“He’ll learn his lesson, and I’ll personally be taking him to rehab by the end of the week,” Frank lied.
The mother was reluctant, but she eventually gave in, especially as Frank complimented her beauty and told her she could’ve modeled. He was lying, but if the shoe fits, lace the bitch up and wear it. She agreed and Patrick’s charges had been downgraded to “failure to yield”.
Once again, Jerrod wrote a check to the desperate mother for the twenty grand that ended up being thirty five thousand in total by the time he added in her medical bills, repairs to her Ford Astrostar van and the money he had to pay Frank. Jerrod had a long talk with Patrick and told him maybe he needed to attend rehab somewhere out of state (to keep the family’s solid reputation intact) but Patrick cried like a little bitch, groveling on the floor as he begged his dad not to do it. In the end, Jerrod gave in like he always did to his ne’er-do-well son.
The third frantic call came in 1992, when Frank and Tom were two years into their partnership. It was almost midnight and Tom took the phone call this time, halfway drunk himself as he listened to Jerrod Tyler prattle on about ”my son” and ”our family legacy”. Tom didn’t really give a shit and Jerrod was livid, demanding to know where Frank was.
“How the hell should I know? I’m not his babysitter. He’s probably over at the strip club getting a blow job,” Tom said nonchalantly into the phone. He and Frank were both frequent clients of a gentleman’s club in the next county over, Metuchen. Wednesday nights were always Frank’s big night out over at The Pink Room. He didn’t take any calls after 6pm and Tom would handle anything that might’ve come in. Tom always used the quiet time to run drugs in and out of the office since Frank wasn’t looming around.
Jerrod hopped in his Range Rover and sped the whole thirty minute drive over to The Pink Room to track Frank down, a place he’d never stepped foot inside of in his life. After persuading the bouncer to interrupt Frank’s private lap dance with a one hundred dollar bill, Jerrod and Frank were talking business.
This time, Patrick was 31 and too old to be fucking up. He’d been pulled over for speeding in his vintage Mercedes convertible and blew a .15 on the breathalyzer and also tried to bribe the cop, who happened to be a New York State trooper this time.
Frank was gonna have to pull out all the stops for this one. It was one thing to pay off small time police departments, it was a whole other beast to tackle the law enforcement agency who ran the entire state. Frank was infuriated, not only for his good time at The Pink Room being soured, but because he knew this wouldn’t be an easy feat to get Patrick out of. Jerrod demanded he do whatever it takes so he did.
Frank had to get creative. He insisted to see the records from when the trooper’s breathalyzer device was last calibrated. Thankfully for Frank, the trooper hadn’t recently had it done so Frank found his loophole. Then Frank crafted a heartfelt apology to the judge about commitment to sobriety and giving back. He even went as far to sign Patrick’s name at the bottom because Frank knew that failed abortion of a kid couldn’t do anything, much less pen a sincere sounding letter.
In the end, the judge bought it, throwing out the DUI on account of the faulty equipment but there was a catch. Patrick was on probation for a year, received a $10,000 fine and had to attend mandatory AA meetings, not to mention 100 hours of community service. Jerrod coughed up the money for his wayward son, but Frank made sure to jack up his own bill. This time, he managed to get thirty thousand out of Jerrod.
“Third time’s a charm,” Frank laughed as he and Tom counted out the thirty thousand dollars in cash Jerrod had reluctantly dropped off earlier in the day, tucked inside of a Salvatore Ferragamo shoebox. “As long as Pat Tyler is breathing, we’ll continue to be very rich men.”
On one hand, Jerrod knew Frank Griffith had saved his son and the family name on three separate occasions. On the other hand, he also knew Frank was dirty and didn’t mind capitalizing on the misfortunes of others. After that, Jerrod only prayed Patrick would learn his lesson and he wouldn’t have to call on Frank again.
Chapter 7: I Heard It Through The Grapevine
Summary:
Eden gets herself accustomed to the daily theatrics of working at Griffith & Wolfe while Frank takes a walk down memory lane.
Chapter Text
My first day at Griffith and Wolfe isn’t the kind of first day most people have in their place of employment. They might fill out tax paperwork, get a copy of the employee handbook and spend the whole day going through orientation. But I should’ve known that Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe aren’t the most conventional employers.
I’m the first to show up to the office. Frank didn’t tell me what time to come in when I’d last talked to him and I neglected to even ask. So I showed up at 8am, surprised to find the door locked. I didn’t see Tom’s crusty Caddy parked anywhere and I didn’t know what kind of car Frank drove. It was too cold to wait outside, so I sat in my car with the heater on and chain smoked, wondering if I was making a mistake.
At 8:30, Frank steps out of shiny black Lincoln Town Car. Dressed in all black, Frank looks like the devil as he crosses the street in front of where I’m parked. There’s something about the way he carries himself that both unnerves me and excites me. He wears a black suit, his long black overcoat billowing behind him as he takes each calculated step. It’s like watching Ed Collins all over again. Except Frank doesn’t wear Italian imported leather loafers. He wears black cowboy boots. It’s an interesting look for New York but I remind myself Frank is unlike any other lawyer I’ve ever met.
I give him a few minutes to get settled in before I ring the doorbell of the office. Frank opens the door, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a cup of coffee in his hand. When he sees me, he smiles but it’s the kind of smile that feels forced.
“Good morning Miss Tyler, you’re late,” Frank barks as I walk inside.
I freeze in the doorway, caught off guard. “I was here at eight, waiting on you and Tom to show up. You didn’t tell me what time to be here so I assumed that eight was a safe choice.”
Frank puffs on his cigarette and shakes his head. “Well you assumed incorrectly. You could’ve called me up this weekend, said ‘Hey Frank, what time do you need me to be there on Monday?’ And I would’ve told you to come by and pick up a key so you could open the office up for Tom and myself.”
“Here,” Frank grumbles, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, tossing a key with no aim so it bounces off the floor behind me. “You can start letting yourself in from now on.”
I take a deep breath and turn around, bending over to get the key off the floor. I’m already regretting taking this job. When I turn to look over my shoulder and straighten myself up, I’m not surprised to see Frank’s eyes where they shouldn’t be—clearly appreciating the view of my ass.
Whereas most men might change the subject or quickly avert eye contact, Frank doesn’t. He just smirks and then arches one eyebrow. I don’t know whether to be pissed off or intrigued. His eyes travel down my body, pausing at my breasts before he takes in my legs. I’m wearing a high neck, long sleeved rayon blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, black pantyhose on my legs and a pair of stilettos.
“Do you plan on dressing like that everyday?” Frank asks me.
Of course, it’s the same clothes I wore when I worked back in the city for Ed Collins, doing real work for a real attorney. “Uh, yeah. It’s how I’ve always dressed.”
“Well that’s too bad,” Frank sighs. “Such nice clothes when your first order of business is to get this dump you’re about to call your office cleaned up.”
Frank smirks again and takes a sip of his coffee as he watches my reaction.
I scoff. “You expect me to clean this office and work out of the reception area? Back in New York I had my own office!”
Frank wheezes laughter this time, clearly amused. “Does this look like the prosecutor’s office to you?” He asks, sweeping his arm around dramatically. “This is a real, working law practice. Tom and I don’t have taxpayer dollars lining our pockets. And for the record, we’ve never needed a paralegal before.” He pauses, his smirk deepening. “Not convinced we need one now either.”
I see what Frank’s trying to do. He’s trying to intimidate me, to see how far I’ll go before I snap and crumble, throwing something in his face before I storm out of here. But I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Anyway, there’s cleaning supplies and a vacuum in the closet across from Tom’s office. I figure if you start now,” Frank pauses to look down at his Rolex watch. “You’ll probably have this place spic and span by noon. Just in time for lunch.”
I take one look around the front office. It’s the same cluttered reception area that’s always been here, complete with the ficus tree that would probably thrive in an environment where it wasn’t choked out by Tom and Frank’s constant stream of cigarette smoke. The computer that sits on the desk is caked in dust and looks like it probably still runs on MS-DOS and not the latest, greatest Windows 95. Who knows if it’s even operational? A few pizza boxes line the desk as well as a mountain of mail and magazines.
I’m still furious but I try not to show it.
“Welcome to Griffith and Wolfe. Where we don’t do frills, we do results. Get this place cleaned up and maybe I’ll give you some real work later today.” With that, Frank turns and leaves, heading down the hallway and disappears inside of his office, closing the door behind him.
….
Just before noon, I finally finish cleaning the office. I’ve already chucked three bags of trash into the dumpster out back, not to mention a cardboard box full of useless bullshit. The office smells better, a mix of Murphy’s Oil Soap and Pine Fresh but it’s basically a band aid. It will take time to make this place look decent. And by time, I mean a can of gasoline and a book of matches.
I look down at my clothes. My blouse is dusty and I’ve got runs in my pantyhose. I can only imagine what my hair must look like. After I get back from trying to fix myself up in the bathroom as best as I can, the front door swings open and Tom shows up. It’s 12:07pm.
Tom wears a pair of sunglasses, probably to hide his hungover eyes. His button down shirt hasn’t seen an iron in well…ever. He looks every bit the scuzzy man I’ve come to know.
“Hey,” Tom says casually as he walks over to the desk. “I see Frank must’ve put you to work.”
“That’s one of way of putting it,” I respond sarcastically.
“Yeah,” Tom plants his hands on his hips, looking around. He walks around the room, running his fingers across a set of built in shelves and holds them up to observe once he’s pushed his sunglasses down. “Looks like you missed a spot over here.”
This must be how Tom and Frank operate. Be rude to the hired help. No wonder they’ve been a two man band for as long as they have. No one in their right mind would come to work for them. No one but me.
“I did my best!” I shout. “Maybe if you took some of the money from your drug sales and hired a maid, this place wouldn’t look like such a hellhole!”
“Ouch,” Tom feigns mock hurt. “I’ll ask Frank if it’s in the budget for us to get a maid. I’m not so sure you’re in the budget either.”
I hear the thud of footsteps and Frank comes into the office, looking from Tom to myself. He looks down at his watch.
“Tom, how nice of you to grace us with your presence. It’s already ten past twelve. Let me guess, you spent this morning sleeping off last night’s hangover?” Frank gripes.
“Get off my dick,” Tom retorts. “I had a meeting with the ex Mini-Mart employee. When was the last time you had an actual client Frank?”
Frank mumbles something under his breath but he doesn’t press Tom any further. “Well now that you’re here, bring your ass back to my office. We need to go over our conference call at two.”
Both men head down the hallway leaving me alone. Frank said earlier that lunch was at noon and it’s already past noon.
“I’m going to lunch!” I holler down the hallway, grabbing my coat off the coat rack and my purse. I don’t get a response but it’s no surprise.
Happy first day of employment to me.
….
While I make myself familiar with the greasy menu at Faye’s Diner, Tom sits inside of Frank’s office while they discuss business and by that I mean me.
“You should’ve seen her when she got here this morning Tommy,” Frank explains, ever the storyteller. “Dressed like she just walked out of a window display for Saks Fifth Avenue. But the real gem was the look on her face when I told her she needed to clean up. She might not be an outright prick like her uncle or his brat Pat, but I detected just the slightest hint of condescension.”
Tom laughs, helping himself to the bottle of Jack Daniels that Frank has out on his desk. “Guess she’s got the part of the good ‘ol Tyler family gene pool that makes her think she’s above certain things.“
Frank nods and takes a sip of his own glass of whiskey. “I have to admit, she cleans up a lot better than I thought. Doesn’t look like your typical pill head. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a woman in here that made my pulse race. I looked out there at one point and she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor in that skirt and well, you know.” Frank wolf whistles at that.
“Really?” Tom asks. “Did she make it race as much as Bridget Gregory used to?”
Frank stops the conversation to contemplate on a name he hasn’t heard in a while. Bridget Gregory, the raven haired femme fatale who’s always looking out for number one and Frank’s old paramour. The last he heard from Bridget, she had managed to leave her schmuck physician husband, Clay in the dust and was charming some other poor soul into doing her dirty work. As much as Frank enjoyed their romps in the hay, he also knew a woman like Bridget was calculating and ruthless. It’s why he cut off his personal ties with her and only served to give her not so legal advice when he did hear from her. Bridget reminded him a lot of himself and there’s only room for one calculating person in Frank’s life and that’s him.
“Well Bridget was one thing, but Eden? She’s in a whole different category. She’s messy but there’s something about her that makes me want to really turn up the charm, you know?”
“Yeah? You looking to make her wife number three?” Tom questions.
“I don’t know yet, but I know this much. I’ll work to earn her trust, make sure she knows that she’s valued around here. And when the time is right, she’ll submit to me and I’ll be on the fast track to getting what I want,” Frank responds with a wicked grin.
“Well you being an asshole to her on the first day probably isn’t helping your cause,” Tom challenges him. “I mean making the chick clean up around here? Come on Frank. Even I’m not that heartless.”
“Right. Says the man who fucked Maude Anderson just to get into her will,” Frank scoffs. “It’s all part of the plan, Wolfe. Keep your nose clean and you might learn a thing or two, like the art of fine tuning your manipulation skills. Trust me.”
Tom mutters something under his breath about Frank’s delusions of grandeur but Frank doesn’t care. He knows the game and as far as he’s concerned, he’s already won.
….
I make it through my first week working for Frank and Tom largely unscathed and most of my pride still intact. It doesn’t help that I’m still buying pills from Tom. But it is what it is. Frank himself has been marginally nicer each day since my first day. He gave me a small envelope of cash on Friday as I was finishing up for the day. It wasn’t the kind of money I made back in the city, but it was enough.
“Next week I’ll have Tom set you up on the payroll and he’ll write you a check. Make this thing official,” Frank told me.
The idea of Tom being responsible for running payroll is comical but I remind myself this isn’t like any legal job I’ve held before. But Tom’s been his usual self and I have to admit, he’s made the week go by a bit quicker with his flair for being uniquely and unapologetically himself. Not many people are comfortable enough in their own skin to have the raw authenticity that Tom has. The few clients I’ve met this week have been as interesting as the men that they hire to represent them.
Frank though, he’s something else. Sure, he’s brusque and a downright asshole nine times out of ten. But that one time? He’s different. I see a man of many facets. He’s like a blood diamond, freshly mined from Africa and in need of a good polish and cleaning. He’s the complete opposite of Tom, meaning he’s more on the ball and keeps up his appearance. While looking at him still reminds me of Ed Collins, I see a little less each time I interact with him. Ed lacked the cunning ways that Frank has. Physically they are very similar, but that’s where it all ends.
On Saturday evening, I sit in the guesthouse eating a bowl of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese that I cooked in the microwave. Since I went to work for Frank and Tom, I’ve been keeping my distance from my uncle and aunt. Martha showed up last night with a slice of fresh apple cake that I’m positive Christina made. I can tell it bothers her that Jerrod isn’t very happy with me right now, so she’s tried to keep the peace.
I’m watching an old rerun of Mama’s Family when my the phone in the guesthouse rings.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Eden,” the smooth voice of Frank sounds on the other end of the line. “Sorry to bother you over the weekend. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
I blink, caught by surprise, wondering how Frank got my number until I realize I’d written my basic contact information down on my first day. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, I know your first week was a lot to take in. And I know I probably wasn’t very easy to deal with. I’m an intense man. I’ve got that same passion you’ve got, you know?” Franks says disarmingly and I almost hear his smile through the phone.
I find myself smiling right back. “It’s alright. I’ve worked for worse hard asses than you Frank.”
Frank chuckles into the phone “Is that right? Maybe you’d like to tell me about it over dinner sometime.”
I think I hear a faint snort on the other end of the line, followed by ”OW!”
“Is everything ok?” I ask.
A pause on the line then Frank speaks. “Uh, yeah. It was the television. Stupid show I’m watching. Sorry about that.”
Is Frank asking me out on a date? I find that hard to believe. He barely knows me. But I have to admit, part of me enjoys the thrill. I’m only human.
“Maybe,” I respond cautiously. “Are you married?” At least let me not make the same mistake I made with Ed.
Frank chuckles. “No sweetheart. I’ve been married and divorced twice. A man like me…I’m a misunderstood individual, let’s put it that way. I’m used to being a one man show, you know? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit guarded. Heartbreak will do that to you.”
I hear another strange sound and then a crash.
“Sorry about that, I just dropped something. Well anyway, I don’t mean to hold you up. Just wanted to check on you. Have a good rest of your weekend Eden,” Frank says.
“Ok Frank, you too. I’ll see you Monday.”
I hang up the phone with a smile.
Meanwhile over at Frank’s brick Cape Cod home, he tosses a TV Guide at Tom’s head. Tom laughs like a hyena.
“Quiet goddamnit!” Frank hollers. “You think this plan is gonna work with you snorting like a fool in the background?”
Tom laughs so hard he doubles over on Frank’s leather couch, clutching his love handles. “Dinner? Heartbreak? Frankie you’re killing me!”
“Fuck off,” Frank hisses and takes a slow sip of his bourbon. “At least I’m not seducing a woman old enough to be my grandmother.”
“No,” Tom chuckles. “You’re just seducing one young enough to be your daughter. Christ Frank! Are you sure you’re cut out for this? C’mon let’s take a ride over to The Pink Room. I’ll even pay for you to get a lap dance.”
Frank waves him off and lights up a cigarette. “I’ll leave the skanks at The Pink Room to you.”
“Oh please. Lose the almighty act. Don’t act like you haven’t had your share of Pink Room pussy,” Tom says with a scowl.
“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome. Get outta here Tommy,” Frank shoots back.
“Fine,” Tom yawns. “Maybe after I’ll leave you’ll call her back and read her Keats or something. Really make her feel special.”
Frank shoots Tom a menacing look to let him know he means business. Tom stops busting his balls but he doesn’t stop laughing, cackling all the way out the door and into Frank’s driveway.
Frank stands at the picture window in his living room, watching Tom do the drunk shuffle to his car and shakes his head. Once his Cadillac peels out of Frank’s driveway, pouring exhaust fumes into the night, he sits down on the couch, taking another sip of bourbon.
“Yeah,” Frank announces as he talks to no one in particular. “It’s time for me to get what I’m owed. And the sweet niece is gonna be my shoe in.”
Frank closes his eyes, clasping his hands together across his chest. He thinks back to the last time he had an important meeting with Jerrod Tyler, one that didn’t involve helping Patrick evade the law. This particular meeting didn’t go so well. Most people would forget it and move on, but not Frank Griffith. He’s been biding his time everyday since then, stewing a little more each day. Frank always knew he could keep his cards close to his chest and when the time was right, he’d lay them out on the table.
He’ll fill Tom in on the whole plan eventually but for now, Frank takes a walk down memory lane. It’s a walk he doesn’t like to take as it makes him suffer to a certain degree, post traumatic stress disorder if you will. But keeping the memory alive and well in his mind is what keeps Frank going.
….
Mid April, 1994
Frank Griffith is driving down the road, the stereo in his Lincoln blasting Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” It’s a Saturday afternoon and he’s just returned from a lunch date over in Metuchen. Frank had a lady friend he linked up with on occasion when he was feeling horny. So Frank would call her up and she’d make herself available. Miss Lula Spencer, 45 years old and single.
Lula was an ex-stripper Frank first met in The Pink Room, not long after he came to town. She lived in a small apartment above a garage in Metuchen and Frank always appreciated her discretion. Lula wasn’t the kind of woman he’d show off on his arm in Northfield and certainly not the kind of woman he’d ever consider anything permanent with. Lula served one purpose in Frank’s life and that was to keep him satisfied.
Frank knew he wasn’t Lula’s only customer, hell the woman was the community bicycle. He’s pretty sure Tom’s even plugged her a time or two. But Frank knows better. He always uses a condom in case Lula might want to leave him with any parting gifts and she’s had her tubes tied so he never has to worry about another accidental pregnancy like he did with his second wife. Frank must have a thing for strippers but then again, he’s a man.
Frank adjusts his crotch, a pleasant feeling swelling down below as he thinks of the things he had done with Lula a couple of hours ago in her tiny apartment. Frank had a strange sexual appetite at times and Lula was always down to role play. They’d been playing the game of uptight teacher versus naughty student. Frank, as usual, played the teacher while the middle aged Lula donned a plaid skirt and tied a blouse at the waist so she looked like a slutty schoolgirl. She even wore her hair in pigtails. Frank didn’t like that part so he shoved her head down into the pillows as he plowed into her from behind.
When it was all over and done with, Frank took Lula over to The Pink Room for their daily lunch special. After all, it was where he first met her. Frank knew that Lula knew he’d never see her as anything more than a place to get his needs tended to and he was thankful. She never expected to be anything more to Frank than what she was.
The good thing about The Pink Room was a man could go there and satisfy all three of his appetites: he could get something to eat, something to drink, and something to get off to if that’s what he wanted. Sometimes Frank didn’t even go there to look at women working the pole, sometimes he went there to get a Reuben sandwich and sometimes he went just for the ambiance. Sometimes he even met with clients there or old associates from Buffalo.
Frank’s driving east on Route 24, heading back into Northfield when he spies Stonewall Road on the left. He decides to take the scenic route back into town. Stonewall Road with its sprawling farms is like something out of magazine. Frank always had ambitions of living in one of the big houses on Stonewall, but he settled for his Cape Cod just outside of town. He had neighbors on both sides but Frank decided he didn’t need some flashy horse farm mansion to hole up in.
Stonewall Road is also the home of Fox Ridge Vineyards and Christmas Tree Farm, run by Jerrod Tyler and his wife Martha. Of course Patrick couldn’t keep a job anywhere else so daddy hired him to help him run the vineyard. Frank always thought it was hilarious that a drunk like Patrick be given the job of running the vineyard. He imagines the temptation he must face day in and day out. He and Tom have often laughed about it at the Tyler family’s expense.
Frank slows down as Fox Ridge comes into view, up ahead on the left.
“Oh, what the hell,” Frank says and gives his turn signal, turning off the road and down the driveway. The Christmas tree farm is right off the road and quiet this time of year. The real work lies just beyond in the vineyards and the rest of the farm. Fox Ridge wasn’t an actual farm, not with chickens and cows. Jerrod and Martha owned a few horses but that was mainly for the agricultural tax credits.
The real bread and butter of Fox Ridge is row after row of grapes. Jerrod had even built an impressive tasting room and shop in front of the vineyard to appeal to the tourists who rolled through. Frank knew that Jerrod had bought the place for next to nothing. He only imagines what it must be worth now.
It’s Saturday afternoon and the tasting room is in full swing. A dozen cars from everyday Toyotas and Hondas down to flashy Beamers and Jaguars line the cobblestone parking area in front of the large building. Frank angles his Lincoln in between a Porsche 911 and a Toyota Land Cruiser.
He’s not one to usually stop by here but today feels different. He’s certain that if Jerrod is around, he’ll make like a tree and leave if he sees Frank. Jerrod doesn’t like to associate with Frank except for those three separate incidents when Frank helped Patrick avoid jail time. Men like Jerrod Tyler like their skeletons in the closet and the men like Frank Griffith that help those skeletons out, need to be out of sight and out of mind.
Dressed in a white button down by Ralph Lauren and a pair of Levi’s, Frank appears like any other wine guzzling elitist around here. Except he wears cowboy boots. He always does. Frank traipses up to the front door of the tasting room, surprised to find Patrick manning the fort.
Great idea, Frank thinks to himself. That’s like letting the fox guard the henhouse.
When Patrick sees Frank, Frank enjoys the look of surprise in the 33 year old loser’s eyes. Frank’s going to enjoy watching him squirm.
“Good afternoon,” Patrick puts on his best face for Frank. “Are you looking to try some wine?”
“No Pat. No wine for me. I’ll leave the wine tasting to you,” Frank chuckles. “Where’s your daddy?”
Frank knows for a fact that rich pricks like Patrick don’t like other people calling their fathers daddy but if Frank knows someone’s got a hot button, he’s going to put that bitch into overdrive.
Patrick pretends not to hear him so Frank asks him again.
“My dad,” Patrick hisses quietly. “Is out back giving a tour.”
Frank looks down at his Rolex DayDate, pretending like he’s pressed for time. “Well make yourself useful Paddy Boy. Go get him for me, will you?”
Patrick puts a stopper in a bottle of Shiraz, shaking his head. “How many times do I have to remind you my name is Patrick? Not Paddy Boy. Not Pat.”
“I don’t know,” Frank shrugs as he leans on the counter. “How many times are you gonna get hammered and get behind the wheel of a car? Surprised you’ve made it this long without fucking up again.”
Patrick starts to say something but he knows this is an argument he won’t win.
A few minutes later with Frank staring Patrick down with a smirk, Jerrod’s tour wraps up and he comes into the tasting room from the door behind the counter where Patrick is situated. When Jerrod sees Frank, he gets a look of discomfort on his weathered face.
Jerrod wears a lightweight flannel shirt underneath of a rich looking vest with Fox Ridge’s logo embroidered on it. He wears a pair of crisp Dockers and brown loafers. His Ray Ban Wayfarers dangle on a cord around his neck, looking every part the typical wannabe vineyard running asshole.
“Frank,” Jerrod nods with a forced smile. “What can I do for you?”
Frank returns the smile, reaching his hand across the counter to shake hands with Jerrod. Jerrod hesitates for a few odd seconds before he finally returns it.
“Oh Jerrod, I don’t think it’s what you can do for me, but what I can do for you,” Frank assures him in his best voice.
Jerrod wrinkles his forehead in confusion but Frank presses on.
“There’s a big potential for Fox Ridge and I’m not just talking about the damn grapes and Christmas trees,” Frank says, gesturing with his hands. “I’m talking about the future. A housing development, even a strip mall. The people of Northfield need more amenities.”
Patrick mumbles something under his breath and Jerrod tells him to get lost, politely of course. He wants to have this conversation in private.
“Frank, what are you even talking about?” Jerrod questions him.
“I’m talking about you selling your farm. I’ve got a team of investors who are highly interested. This property is a prime location for a handsome looking neighborhood and not some cookie cutter shit like Ryan Homes puts up. They’ve got a builder who builds these beautiful little mansions that’ll fit right in on Stonewall Road. You’re not getting any younger, right Jerrod? Might as well use whatever time you have left to relax. Take the money and run,” Frank proclaims in a voice that’s half charming, half poison.
Jerrod shakes his head in disgust. “Frank Griffith, I’d rather die than do business with you again.”
Frank chuckles, slapping his palm down on the counter. “Is that right? Who else do you think you’re gonna call when Pat the Brat drinks one too many cocktails at Sunday brunch and ends up killing a family of four on their way back from church? Huh?”
Jerrod sighs into his hand. Patrick’s struggles with sobriety is not something he likes to discuss but he knows Frank is right. Frank’s bailed him out every time but Patrick’s clean now. Well, kinda. The mandatory AA meetings helped to an extent. Of course Patrick still tastes wine for work purposes and of course he still drinks it with his dinner every night, lunch too. He might still be drinking but at least he’s not out drinking and driving.
“I paid my bills, did I not?” Jerrod asks with disdain laced in his voice.
“Sure, you’ve always been real good at keeping up your end of the deal,” Frank agrees. “But this deal is something else. Let me at least set up a meeting for you to meet with these investors. I’ll even fly them in from Buffalo, on my dime of course.”
The last thing Jerrod wants to do is sell Fox Ridge. After all, this place is his family’s legacy. Since Patrick and his wife Caroline are talking about possibly starting a family (as soon as Patrick decides to trade in his flask for fatherhood), they need a place where they can continue to grow. Generation after generation of Tyler children running Fox Ridge long after Jerrod and Patrick are gone.
“Fine. I’ll think about it,” is all Jerrod says but instead in his mind, all Frank hears is ”fine”.
“Great!” Frank exclaims. “I’ll reach out and set it all up. I’ll be in touch with a date and a time. I just know they’ll love this place when they see it in person.”
Jerrod doesn’t bother telling Frank that he’s not really interested, he just decides to nod his head so Frank will take the hint and leave. He’s had enough of Frank’s blatant disrespect for one day. Hell, for one year even.
Frank walks out to his Lincoln with a large grin on his face. From his cellular flip phone, he calls a number back in Buffalo that he knows by heart.
“Hey Gordy, it’s Frank. Gonna need you to call in the big guns for this. How fast can we come with an LLC so it looks legit?”
Gordon “Gordy” Waller is an old pal of Frank’s. They go way back to when Frank was a teenager hustling the pool halls and Gordy was just a kid, no more than seven, whose drunk dad spent way too much time and money in the pool hall. Gordy’s in his late 40s, short with jet black hair and a bushy mustache, dyed to match his hair. He’s made his living being a thug in Buffalo, a quiet loner who keeps to himself when he’s not brokering broken bones and accidental fires.
“Maybe a week, maybe less,” Gordy responds. “What’s the deal this time?”
“Let’s just call it a real estate investment,” Frank says. “I’ll tell you more later. You’ll have to call Harry Harper for this too. After all, he’s the one with the deep pockets.”
When Frank hangs up the phone, he chuckles to himself and puts the Lincoln in drive, Marvin Gaye still singing about grapevines.
About a month later, the framework has been set. Jerrod agreed to a meeting with the team of investors out of Buffalo, a supposed real estate firm. They had the professionalism of Coldwell Banker and Charles Schwab all rolled up in one presentable package. By appearances, the team of executives that traveled into the regional airport in nearby Metuchen via Learjet looked every part the typical refined businessmen. But their real dealings were just as crooked as the man who set it all up. Frank Griffith, of course.
Frank had been amped up all week. Tom was tired of hearing about the ”big guns from Buffalo” and kept waiting for Frank to finally leave the office so he could get down to his real business. The drugs that is.
Now Frank waits in a private dining room of The Brass Bell, one of Northfield’s oldest and most prestigious dining establishments. Frank only brings important clients to lunch or dinner here and the occasional good looking woman he might want to charm so she’ll give him what he really wants. Frank had went all out, securing the private dining room for their meeting as well as making sure they had white glove service and a delectable tasting menu.
Gordy sits across from him, tapping a book of matches on the crisp ivory tablecloth of the table they sit at. The team of big shots are there too and they’re real impressed. The meeting was at 1pm. It’s now 1:30 and Jerrod has yet to show.
Finally, sometime around 1:40, Jerrod rolls in with his useless offspring in tow and another Northfield lawyer that Frank doesn’t like, Robert Davis. He’s the Davis in Crocker, Davis and Thurston. He’s certain that Jerrod and Robert probably play golf together at the Northfield Country Club, a place Frank has tried like hell to get a membership to but no upstanding citizen wants to vouch for him.
“Gentleman, how good of you to join us,” Frank puts on his best grin although on the inside he’s pissed at having his time wasted.
“Sorry for running late. We had a matter to take care of back at the farm,” Jerrod says to smooth the mood.
After everyone’s introduced and done shaking each other’s hands, Henry Harper begins his spiel. The white haired grandfather is a millionaire twice over in Buffalo. He’s also shifty but who in Frank’s inner circle isn’t? He’s convincing enough with two of his best men in on the project. They’ve been studying Fox Ridge and its annual revenue from the vineyard and Christmas tree farm. They even brought pie charts and bar graphs.
Frank leans back in his chair, halfway through his pack of Marlboros, a pleased look on his face. Jerrod seems impressed, engaging with the team of businessman and even letting Frank throw in a word or two. It’s all going according to plan. Until Patrick whispers something to his daddy out of earshot. Then Robert Davis gets Jerrod’s other ear and the three men ask if they can be excused for a few moments.
A few moments turns into fifteen minutes. Frank smokes the entire time, looking from Gordy to Harry as sweat starts to collect on his forehead.
“What if he doesn’t sell?” Gordy whispers.
“Then we’ll bring them a better offer. I’ve already got a number in my head,” Harry replies confidently.
“He’s not going to sell,” Frank says, dabbing the sweat off his forehead. “The minute he showed up late with his fucking son and that dickhead Davis in tow solidified it.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist Griffith,” Harry says, looking to Frank. “Think positive.”
Gordy shifts in his chair and remains quiet, watching Frank start to come unglued. He’s known Frank long enough to know that Frank’s as sharp as a tack and has a gift for reading people and seeing through the bullshit. He’s been like that as long as Gordy could remember.
After fifteen minutes, the three men reenter the room. They don’t bother to sit down. They don’t bother to take a sip of their respective drinks.
“Well gentleman, I speak for everyone when I say this. We really appreciate you coming all the way out here. It’s been such an insightful meeting. But after sometime to discuss it, Fox Ridge is not for sale,” Robert announces.
Frank breaks his cigarette in half. Harry’s voice cuts through the bullshit, bringing in his final offer. But Jerrod Tyler isn’t interested.
“Fox Ridge is my family’s legacy,” Jerrod states. “And our legacy can’t be bought.”
With that, Frank watches in disgust as the three men leave the room. After a couple of minutes of tense silence and the businessmen packing up their things, he explodes.
In dramatic fashion, Frank flips the table like Teresa Giudice from The Real Housewives of New Jersey fame will do more than a decade later. He hollers, his loud voice cutting through the din. He throws a plate at the wall. In the end, everyone returns to Buffalo while Frank is stuck with the dining bill as well as the damages he was responsible for.
Back at Griffith and Wolfe, Tom’s nodding off to the shit he put in his vein an hour ago. He’s coming out of his high, Steely Dan playing on the stereo in Frank’s office. Since Frank was out at his important meeting, Tom pretended like he was the one in charge for once, sitting in Frank’s chair and kicking his shoeless feet up on the desk.
When Frank rips into the office, it’s like a fucking tornado. Tom nearly falls out of the chair and Frank’s explosive demeanor snaps him out of his stoned mindset.
“Motherfucker!” Frank roars, tossing his full ashtray at the wall. “That cavalier prick made me look like a FOOL!”
Tom blinks and wheels Frank’s chair backwards, hoping he’ll avoid Frank’s wrath. “I take it you didn’t get your way?”
“Does it look like I got my way?” Frank snaps, tossing a phone book in Tom’s direction. “Jerrod Tyler embarrassed me! Everything I put together and for what? For nothing! Made me look like an idiot with my dick hanging out in the wind in front of my own hometown connections!”
Frank continues shouting and throwing things, finally collapsing in a heap on the couch in the corner of his office. Tom gives him a few minutes to calm down before he approaches him, sticking out his pack of Camel Lights for Frank.
Frank takes a cigarette, Tom lighting it for him. He smokes it halfway down in just a few long puffs before he speaks. “Jerrod Tyler and his fucking degenerate son will be sorry they ever fucked with the likes of Franklin Hayes Griffith. I’m going to put them all in the ground for good.”
In the few years of knowing Frank, Tom was no stranger to his blowups but this tirade was on a new level, even for Frank.
“You mean you’re going to—,”
Tom asks but Frank cuts him off.
“Yes Tommy, I’m going to kill them all. If it’s the last thing I do. You don’t fuck with me and walk away unscathed,” Frank grumbles.
Sure, Tom and Frank were both immoral lawyers but nobody ever got hurt. They weren’t quite that evil. It’s one thing to pray for an enemy’s downfall, it’s a whole other thing to say you’re going to be the one to make it all happen.
Tom’s cautious, borderline nervous. “I don’t know Frank, I don’t think killing off the Tyler family is the right answer. Everyone’s gonna know you did it on account of your rocky relationship with them.”
Frank chuckles darkly, shaking his head. “Not now, dumbass. Do you think I’m that fucking stupid? No Tom, this sort of thing takes time and patience. I’ll hit them when they least expect it. Might be months, it might be years. But this is a game I will win.”
Tom’s phone rings from down the hallway in his office and he’s thankful for the interruption. “Uh, let me go get that. I’ll check on you in a bit.”
“Don’t bother,” Frank shakes his head. “And close the door on your way out.”
Frank lies on the couch like that for another hour, maybe two. Rehashing everything in his head. He thought of Harry’s words, about not being such a pessimist. Did Harry really think keeping a positive outlook is going to change fate? Fuck no! Frank didn’t get this far in life on his charm alone. His instincts played a huge role. The lateness, Jerrod bringing Paddy Boy and his lawyer pal to the meeting, it was all a setup from the start. A way for them to try and embarrass Frank in front of his colleagues, just like Frank didn’t mind embarrassing them whenever he crossed paths with them.
“You may have won the battle, but you won’t win the war,” Frank muses out loud.
So begins Frank Griffith’s methodical takedown of the Tyler family, one brick at a time.
Chapter 8: Revelations
Summary:
Eden gets a better understanding of her family’s relationship with Frank Griffith. She also gets a better understanding of her own family. Later, Tom Wolfe and Frank Griffith devise a plan.
Notes:
I’ve been on a roll with writing. Not sure how much longer it’s going to last. This story is about to take a turn for the dark side because let’s face it, happy endings are for the weak 😂 But I’m still going to enjoy writing Tom Wolfe as a train wreck and Frank Griffith as the devil in the flesh.
Chapter Text
Late January 1996
I’ve been working at the firm since the beginning of the year. I’ve finally gotten used to my job and finally got the office completely cleaned up. Now Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys At Law looks like a respectable law firm. That is, if you don’t set foot in Tom’s dump of an office. That place has hazmat written all over it. I can tell Frank and Tom are pleased with the work I’ve done so far. I’ve organized their mess of case files and stayed on the ball.
I’m focused. I guess this is the part where I tell you I’ve been taking something to help with focus. Tom gave me some Adderall a couple of weeks ago.
“Just take these if you ever feel like you’re gonna crash, if you need a little extra boost,” Tom told me one busy morning when he how tired I must’ve looked. “A couple here and there won’t kill you.”
Tom didn’t bother to tell me he was giving me an amphetamine, a drug you give people who have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), a controlled substance that should only be prescribed by a MEDICAL DOCTOR. The drug has helped though. I’ve never felt more alive in my life. But there’s times when I feel so wired I can’t sleep or I hear my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Some nights I’m up until 4am, pacing the guesthouse and counting sheep. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, running off of pills, caffeine, nicotine and the occasional meal.
Tom’s got to have something else to help me relax, so I knock on his door. He’s been in there most of the day with the door closed. He doesn’t answer after I knock twice so I enter, finding Tom slumped in his chair, his head head lolled back, mouth slightly ajar.
“Tom!” I yell, running over to him to shake him awake. “Tom! Wake up!”
Tom starts to stir, his eyes slowly blinking as he looks up at me in confusion. “Ma? Is that you?”
Who in the hell is Ma?
“Oh god Ma! I’m finally home ain’t I?” Tom suddenly clutches ahold of my waist, burying his head in my crotch.
“Get the fuck off me!” I holler, pushing him away.
That’s when I notice the needle prominently caught in Tom’s arm. I bend down and grab his arm and yank the needle out to which Tom hollers.
“What the fuck Eden? Ouch damnit!” Tom yelps, clutching his arm.
“Jesus Christ Tom, what the hell are you doing? Trying to kill yourself?” I snap.
“Not hardly,” Tom says, pulling the piece of rubber off of his arm that he used to make his veins pop out. He tosses the needle in the trash can like it’s just a takeout box and rolls his sleeve down. “Don’t you have something to do out front? An errand or something Frank needs you to run?”
I can’t believe what I’ve just witnessed and even more that Tom’s so nonchalant about it. Fucking heroin? In the middle of the day? At the office? Is this a regular occurrence? There’s so many questions I want to ask but Tom’s looking at me like he’s in no mood to answer them. He lights up a cigarette and grabs his bottle of Cutty Sark out of his desk and takes a long pull directly out of the bottle.
“What do you want anyway?” Tom asks me once he’s started to come back from wherever the hell he was.
I shake my head and turn for the door. “Never mind.”
“Wait,” Tom calls out.
I turn around and he gives me a half smile. “Look Eden, I know you’re not a babe in the woods, ok? You know I have my vices. Hell we all do. But I’m always careful. So don’t worry about me. Alright?”
“I thought you were dead!” I snap. “You’re a fucking trainwreck Tom!”
Tom takes a drag of his cigarette and shrugs his shoulders. “Sweetheart it’s gonna take a lot more than this weak shit to kill Tom Wolfe, alright? Not to worry. We good?”
I don’t answer, I just slam the door behind me. Then I hear Frank calling my name from his open door. I’m sure he’s heard the whole exchange go down.
I enter Frank’s office and he’s seated at his desk, a cigarette glowing between two fingers as he looks down at a legal pad. He looks up when I walk in, a small smile creeping across his face.
“It’s almost 4 o’clock. Why don’t you knock off early? You’ve been working real hard this week. Get an early start on the weekend,” Frank offers.
I shake my head, not really worried about leaving early. “Frank, do you know Tom’s shooting up heroin in his office?”
Frank looks at me blankly and then shrugs his shoulders. “And? What else is new?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Does Frank not care that his law partner is one step away from overdosing just right down the hallway?
“Frank what the hell! I can’t believe—,” I start to say before Frank holds up a hand to cut me off.
“Eden, I’ve known Tom for a long time, ok? It’s like the boy who cried wolf you know? You get used to it after sometime. Besides, Tom’s a big boy. He can handle himself,” Frank proclaims with a disarming smile.
“Yeah,” I hear Tom’s voice from behind me as he drags himself into the office. “I can handle myself. But you don’t look so hot Eden. You feeling alright?”
Tom and Frank both stare at me before they exchange a conspiratorial look.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’m going home now.”
“I don’t know Frankie, she doesn’t look like she’s well enough to drive herself. How about I take her home?” Tom offers.
The idea of Tom Wolfe driving me home in his heroin haze doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.
I roll my eyes. “Hell no, I wouldn’t let you walk me home, much less drive me.”
Frank stands up and starts to gather his things, pulling on his coat. “How about I drive you home? Tom’s right Eden, you look like you’re on the edge.”
“I’m fine! Jesus Christ what the fuck kind of law firm is this?” I holler.
“It’s Griffith and Wolfe. D’uh,” Tom replies sarcastically.
Frank walks around to the front of his desk and puts his hand on the small of my back. “Come on, I’ll take you home. You can leave your car here for the time being. I’ll make sure you get it back.”
What the hell. There’s no sense in arguing with Frank. And I don’t feel all that great, between the lack of sleep and the fact that I’ve just witnessed Tom with a needle in his arm. I don’t push it any further and Frank leads me out to my office so I can collect my things.
A few minutes later I’m riding with him in his Lincoln headed out of town.
One of Frank’s big hands are wrapped around the steering wheel while the other holds a cigarette. He looks over at me, his face genuinely content for the first time in well, ever.
“Your hard work hasn’t gone unnoticed,” Frank says in the softest tone I’ve ever heard from the man. “Tom might be too sloshed to see it, but I see it. Day in and day out. I’m very impressed with not only your dedication, but your discretion. I know not all of mine and Tom’s clients are the most stand up people.”
I don’t know what to say so I just smile at him and look out the windshield.
“What are you doing for dinner tonight?” Frank inquires and I can’t believe my ears.
“I’m not sure, I guess just having it with my uncle and aunt,” I lie. It’s been a couple of weeks since I last attended a family dinner at the main house. I’m still keeping my distance from them. My aunt Martha feels guilty about it all, sneaking down to the guesthouse and occasionally bringing me leftovers.
“I’m sorry,” Frank laughs. “How about I take you out for a real dinner? That way you don’t have to sit around a bunch of pompous assholes? No offense.”
I can’t help but laugh a little. “What is it with you and my family? It’s like none of you can stand one another.”
Frank grins and shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. What do you say?”
And just like that, I agree to dinner with Frank.
….
Frank ended up taking me to the Greek restaurant, Athena’s in town. It’s not exactly a date but it doesn’t feel like some dinner where all we’ve done is discuss work. No, it’s been actually refreshing to get to know Frank a little better outside of the law office. For a man who’s somewhat ominous any other given time, tonight he’s something else. Charming, well spoken and one hell of a storyteller.
Frank’s not some dick who spends the entire meal talking about himself or bragging about what he’s done. No, he just has a passion for conversation.
Over spanakopita, Frank tells me the answer to the question I’m dying to know: just why he and my family don’t get along.
“Well, I don’t know if you know this but fuck, even Helen Keller would know this. Your cousin Patrick is an alcoholic,” Frank starts off.
“No shit,” I laugh.
Frank chuckles as well and then goes back into story time. “Your uncle’s called me three times over the years to bail his precious Pat baby out of each arrest. Each time, I put my ass on the line for your family. And after each time, your uncle acts like I’m some piece of shit, like I didn’t help him out when I could’ve told him to get lost. But I have an ethical obligation to help my clients. So I do what needs to be done.”
Frank Griffith and the word ”ethical” don’t belong in the same sentence. Hell, the word shouldn’t even be in his vocabulary but I admit I’m intrigued by the story. I’ve always known my cousin was the most useless, nepotistic asshole ever. I also know he has a drinking problem but I didn’t realize it involved three separate drunk driving incidents.
“Anyway, that’s why your family doesn’t like me. Because I represent everything they have wrong with them.”
“Is that why you don’t like them or do you have other reasons?” I ask him.
“Well,” Frank starts off, leaning back in his chair folding his arms across his chest. “That’s a big part of it, yeah. But the other reason is the business opportunity that your uncle fucked me over on almost two years ago. I offered your family a chance to sell the vineyard. Even brought in a team of investors from out of town. This was a big deal, Eden. And even after our meeting, your uncle had the nerve to say the vineyard wasn’t for sale and it was his family’s legacy. Blah, blah, blah. Just a bunch of horse shit.”
I’m surprised to find out about the botched sale of the vineyard. It’s not something my uncle has ever mentioned to me. But at least know I know why there’s bad blood between my family and my new boss. It makes sense. I’m sure Jerrod getting the last laugh has rubbed Frank the wrong way and I get it.
“Anyway, enough about those assholes,” Frank chuckles. “Why don’t you tell me more about your upbringing? You certainly aren’t cut from the same cloth as the rest of the Tyler clan.”
Frank looks genuinely interested as I tell him about my roots. I tell him about my mom skipping out on my dad and I when I was very young and how my dad raised me by himself, as well as my dad’s blue collar airline mechanic job. I also tell him about my late father and uncle Jerrod’s humble upbringing. Perhaps Frank sees me as an actual person and not some entitled brat with a silver spoon in my mouth
Frank takes a sip of his wine and clears his throat. “Do you look at your uncle like a father figure since your dad passed away?”
“Not really, no,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “I know my uncle cares about me and he and Martha have been good to me, taking me in since I left the city. But he’ll never be my dad. No one will ever replace him.”
Frank nods, his expression unreadable. “Fair enough.”
For a moment, we sit in silence. Frank downs some more of his wine while I take a bite of my grilled eggplant. Then, as if sensing the silence is becoming too much, Frank leans on the table, a look of intrigue on his face.
“Well Eden, you’ve officially surprised me tonight. And trust me, that’s not an easy thing to do.”
I smile faintly, unsure of what to make of his comment. Tonight, Frank Griffith has shown me a new side. He’s a puzzle, a man of many contradictions. But for the first time, I feel like I’ve caught a glimpse of the man behind his crisp suits and black cowboy boots, behind the haze of his cigarette smoke and his sharp tongue. It’s enough to keep me curious, at least for now.
After dinner, he takes me back to the farm. I watch as Frank’s eyes sweep over the farm even in the darkness.
“So should I take you up to the main house? Wouldn’t want your uncle to see the big bad wolf dropping you off,” Frank asks with a chuckle.
“No, I’m actually stating in the guest house, a little further down on the right.”
Frank spins the wheel of the Lincoln and makes his way down the gravel road to the guesthouse. He pulls up to the front and puts the car in park, looking over at me. I’m surprised to see my car’s already been brought back.
“When you went to the bathroom at dinner, I had a friend drop your car off for you. The keys should be on the drivers seat,” Frank declares.
“I take it that friend wasn’t Tom was it?”
Frank snorts. “Hell no. Tom would probably have it wrapped around a tree before he even got out of town. Believe it or not, I have a couple of friends in Northfield. Not everyone thinks I’m a scum sucking prick.”
“Good to know,” I laugh. “You’re not as terrifying as you probably think you are. Underneath all the bravado, you’re almost human.”
Frank offers up a warm laugh, dipping his head back against the headrest. “Almost human? I’ll take it. And for the record Eden, you’re not so bad yourself.”
I smile at his compliment but something inside of me can’t help but wonder if he’s being sincere. While I’ve enjoyed our conversation over dinner and Frank offering no apologies for who he is, I also can’t help but shake the feeling that something else is going on here.
Before Frank bids me farewell for the evening, he retrieves a small bottle of pills from his coat pocket, shaking it so I can hear the pills rattling inside. His light blue eyes glint in the dim glow of the car’s interior.
“These will help you sleep. You look like you could use a good night’s rest.”
The gesture catches me off guard. Is Frank pushing pills now, just like Tom? Or is it that obvious that I’m barely holding myself together, running on fumes and a diet of Adderall, cigarettes and coffee?
I hesitate, glancing at the bottle, then at him.
“They didn’t come from Tom, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says, reading my mind. His tone is calm, even soothing. “They’re mine. Straight from the doctor. It’s Ambien. They’ll take the edge off, help you get some rest.”
When he presses the bottle into my hand, our fingers brush briefly. It feels oddly intimate, like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t even see. My throat tightens. It’s one thing to take a pill from a wreck like Tom, who deals out of the office, The Cornerstone Pub and probably his Cadillac too. But from Frank? My boss? The one who, at least outwardly, has his act together?
“Off the record, of course,” Frank adds, his lips curling into a sly smile. “I’m not writing you up for accepting kindness.”
I swallow hard. What have I got to lose? Another sleepless night? Another morning where I stare at my ceiling, wondering how I ended up here?
I slide the bottle into my purse and reach for the door handle, forcing a polite smile. “Thanks for tonight. It was… interesting.”
Frank’s grin shifts, sharpening into something predatory. “Interesting is my specialty, sweetheart.”
The words linger in the air as I step out of the car. I watch his Lincoln back up, the blood-red glow of his taillights disappearing into the night.
The next morning, a loud pounding jolts me awake. Groggy, I peel myself off the couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. My limbs feel like lead, and my mouth tastes like I’ve swallowed cotton. One Ambien had knocked me out cold.
The knocking persists, sharper this time.
“I’m coming,” I croak, dragging myself to the door. When I open it, my uncle Jerrod is standing there, work gloves clutched in his hands, his face a mask of irritation.
“About time,” he grunts, pushing past me without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve been banging on that door for five damn minutes. Thought I was gonna have to break it down.”
I slam the door shut, arms crossed. “Well, I’m not dead, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Jerrod snorts, tossing the blanket I’d been using onto the coffee table before planting himself on the couch. He surveys the room, his gaze sharp, judgmental.
“Alive, sure,” he says. “And getting rides home from Frank Griffith, no less. How’s that working out for you?”
I bristle, already regretting opening the door. “Frank gave me a ride because I was tired. That’s it.”
“Tired,” he echoes, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Right. Tired from dinner at Athena’s with him? Damnit Eden, I told you to steer clear of that man!”
I glare at him. “Are you keeping tabs on me now, Jerrod? I’m 36 years old. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”
His smirk twists into something colder. “No, you don’t need a babysitter. But you sure as hell need a reality check. 36 years old and living in my guesthouse rent free.” He spits out the words like venom.
“I offered to pay you rent!” I shoot back, my voice rising. “But you wouldn’t take it! At least I’m working! You can’t say the same for Patrick who’s probably five glasses of wine deep into his next drunk driving incident!”
Jerrod’s eyes narrow, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees. “Watch your mouth,” he growls. “That’s my son you’re talking about. I’m here to talk about you, not Patrick.”
“Yeah, you can try and keep Pat on a short leash when he’s not out inventing new ways to drink and drive. But you can’t keep me on that same leash. You’re not my father,” I retort.
“Goddamn right I’m not,” Jerrod fires back. “Because if I was, I would’ve given you up a long time ago. Just like he was planning on doing after your mother got stars in her eyes and skipped out on you both.”
I freeze, his words hitting me like a slap. “You’re lying,” I whisper, though my voice shakes.
Jerrod leans forward, his expression hard. “Yeah I guess you didn’t know about that, huh? Your dear old dad was thinking about giving you up for adoption. You would’ve ended up being just another statistic in New York City, some kid who got tossed around in the foster care system. Jack came to me one day, crying about how he couldn’t raise you by himself and work full time. Told me he didn’t know what else to do. It was Martha and I who talked him out of it.”
The room spins. I grip the back of the armchair, trying to steady myself, but the blood rushing in my ears drowns everything out.
“You’re lying,” I repeat, louder this time. My voice cracks, my anger rising to match my hurt. “My dad loved me! He worked his ass off to take care of me!”
“I’m not lying Eden. It’s time you learned the truth about your dad. He wasn’t some saint who slaved away at the airport. I helped fund your care for years. For years I made sure your dad had enough money to take care of you! While he was too busy dumping his money into the slot machines in Atlantic City or betting on horses, I was the one who helped keep you clothed, probably even fed too. It took your dad a while to pay me back. And even now, he still owes me. But I figured I’d let bygones be bygones when he got slammed into by that eighteen wheeler on the Brookyln Bridge. Otherwise, he’d probably still be paying me off,” Jerrod smirks, clearly unbothered.
“And since you were out with Frank last night, he probably filled you in on the skeletons in the closet of our family. I figured I’d return the favor and fill you in on your own skeletons. It’s only fair you learn the truth.”
I shake my head, the tears stinging at my eyes. “You’re a lying son of a bitch!”
I hiss. “My father wasn’t like that! My father worked for a living and made sure I was taken care of! He’d never take money from you! He despised everything you stood for, how you always looked down your nose at us!”
Jerrod stands up, still clutching onto his work gloves like they’re the only thing stopping him from slapping me. “Of course you were taken care of my dear. Because of my generosity and don’t you forget it. Your dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye but he didn’t mind taking my handouts every chance he could. And all these years later, my generosity is still taking care of you. Letting you shack up in this guesthouse while you flaunt yourself around town with two of the grimiest sons of bitches that ever walked the streets of Northfield.”
The tears start to really flow now and I wipe them away, fighting the urge not to spit in my uncle’s face. “You’re a cruel bastard.”
Jerrod stands, looming over me. “Call me what you want, but if you want to keep on living here, you’ll start acting like you’re a part of this family. That means family dinners every night with Martha, Patrick, Caroline and me. Being grateful for the opportunity I’ve given you when I could’ve turned my back on you. Now I realize you’ve got a job even if I don’t like who you’re working for. But no more running around after hours with Griffith and Wolfe. You get off from work and you come straight home. You got that? And if not, then you can pack your things and get the hell out.”
He leaves without another word, the door slamming behind him.
And I’m left standing there, my heart shattered, my world cracked open, wondering if anything I believed about my life was ever true.
….
A couple of hours after my uncle’s malevolent conversation with me, across town in Tom’s decrepit Victorian, he and Frank are gathered in the living room. The house had been elegant when Maude Anderson was still alive. Since Tom took ownership, the place had fallen into a state of disrepair. The wood floors haven’t been kept up since Maude died in 1990. Tom’s not much for housekeeping, preferring to let the house fester like an open wound until guilt or boredom leads him to call up one of his drugged up flings for housekeeping services. Payment was simple: a fresh supply of whatever pills or drugs they were hooked on. It’s been a few weeks since he last had the place cleaned up and the air reeks of stale smoke. Frank stands in front of the crackling fireplace, nursing a glass of whiskey while Tom is stretched out on the couch in his bathrobe.
“So you took the it girl out for dinner, huh?” Tom asks Frank, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “How much longer before you nail her?”
“In due time, Tommy. The long game takes immeasurable patience. I’m not gonna just take her out to dinner one time and bend her over the backseat of the Lincoln, you know?” Frank casually declares with a smirk.
Tom laughs, low and coarse. “Alright genius. How did it all go down?”
“Better than I hoped,” Frank turns to the fire, his smirk deepening. “I told her about her fucked up family and in turn, she dropped her guard and told me her own sob story. The mommy who left her when she was a tot, the daddy who worked long hours working on airplanes at La Guardia. It was real enlightening stuff, Tom. Eden doesn’t even realize how much she’s helping my plan already.”
Tom tilts his head, his curiosity piqued. “And you still haven’t filled me on exactly what this plan entails, Frank. Come on man, don’t keep me in the dark. We’re partners.”
Frank scowls, taking another sip of the whiskey. “Yeah, don’t remind me of that. You’re a real stand up guy when you’re not shooting up heroin during the middle of the day or when you’re nursing a hangover. Lay off the drugs for a while, at least while Eden’s around. I don’t want you scaring her off and running her out of town.”
Tom chuffs laughter, wheezing as he slaps his knee. “Relax, Frankie. Get your dick out of a twist. Besides, if you didn’t scare her off with your tales about her family’s sordid past, I’m sure me nodding off every now and then isn’t gonna make much of a difference. How’d she take the news finding out her prick cousin is a lush?”
“She already knew,” Frank proclaims with another one of his signature smirks. “She just didn’t know how many DUIs he’d racked up that I’d gotten him out of. Told her a little about the blunder with the sale of the vineyard too. Of course I left out a few key points but what she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.”
“Right,” Tom says sardonically. “Like how the deal was one sided to begin with. And how your business associates from Buffalo were no more than thugs in fancy suits. How Jerrod Tyler saw right through the facade from the beginning.”
“Shut it Wolfe,” Frank snaps. “It had nothing to do with Jerrod Tyler seeing through anything. It’s about his precious family legacy, remember? That’s all that smug fuck is worried about. The only family legacy he’ll have is the one that involves him taking a ride down to the funeral home.”
Tom sits up, raising an eyebrow conspiratorially. “So you’re still thinking about snuffing them all out huh?”
“Absolutely,” Frank responds, his tone casual like he’s talking about the weather. “Remember what I told you before? Jerrod thinks he can screw me over and walk away. No one does that to Frank Griffith. Not Jerrod, not Plastered Patrick, none of them. Jerrod’s wife and his daughter in law Caroline? Collateral damage.”
Tom rubs the week old stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “And how exactly are you gonna do it?”
“I’m gonna keep on showing Eden my sincere side. That I’m not the cutthroat snake her uncle’s made me out to be,” Frank’s rich voice is even lower, more deliberate. “The more I can get her to lean on me, the more easily it’ll be to get her away from them. And once I do, we’ll move in for the kill. Make it real clean and untraceable.”
Tom’s grin widens as an idea takes root in his own twisted mind. “Well it’ll need to look like an accident. Maybe carbon monoxide poisoning. Gas the whole fucking family. Doesn’t get any cleaner than that, now does it?”
A lightbulb must go off in Frank’s head and his blue flame eyes widen in surprise. He slaps an open palm down on the mantel and starts to full on cackle. The kind of laugh where he’s clutching his sides and wheezing for air.
“Goddamn Tom! That might be the smartest idea you’ve ever had!”
Tom smiles, clearly pleased with his ability to come up with something so sinister at the drop of a hat. “I’ve always been able to think on the fly. A rare talent.”
Frank raises his glass of whiskey in a mock salute. “Here’s to rare talents, then. And to Jerrod’s precious family legacy.”
Their laughter echoes together through the room, bouncing off the nicotine stained walls. From up above the fireplace on the mantel, an old black and white wedding day picture of the dearly departed Maude and her late husband smiles down on them. The laughter eventually subsides and Frank’s own smile grows cold as he watches the flames dance in the fireplace.
“I always get what I want,” he mumbles under his breath.
Chapter 9: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
Summary:
Eden navigates the hellish ritual of family dinners with her uncle and his family until she gets a better idea one evening to invite a guest. Afterwards she pays a visit to one of Tom’s and Frank’s favorite places.
Chapter Text
This family dinner bullshit is getting old. It’s been a couple of weeks of non stop dinners with my family every night, me fighting the urge to tell them all to fuck off. Aunt Martha is the glue holding us all together. Patrick’s still a drunken prick, Caroline still picks at her food when she’s not laughing at Patrick picking on me, and Jerrod tries to play the part of the caring uncle when deep down he’s a heartless prick.
I see through it all. I can tell he clearly enjoys my displeasure of having to eat with them. I’m sure I could leave the guesthouse and find an apartment in town. But truthfully, I’m not exactly flush with cash. The quarterly payment I get from my dad’s life insurance won’t be paid until the beginning of April. The money I had saved up is slowly trickling down the drain between my storage unit bill from the city, as well as a couple of credit cards and me paying Tom for my endless supply of pills.
“Ever hear of an employee discount?” I had asked him earlier in the week when I walked into his office for a refill on my Percocet, Adderall and Xanax—the latest drug to help soothe my nerves.
“Supply and demand, doll,” Tom smirked. “You can’t exactly roll down to Dr. Carpenter’s office and get your pills, now can you?”
I have just enough money to get by with since I’m not making the big bucks I was accustomed to making before I fucked up my life. Even thinking about money gives me a headache, especially knowing how my uncle supposedly helped fund my upbringing. I still can’t believe it but perhaps all of those strained conversations my dad and uncle had were for a reason.
Patrick’s already drank one too many beers and Caroline left the table to probably go puke up the few bites of food she did consume tonight. My uncle and aunt make mindless chatter before Martha turns her attention to me.
“So Eden, how’s things going at work? Do you like your job?” Her voice is genuine and I can tell she’s only trying to make conversation if all she’s doing is pressing a hot button.
“It’s going great,” I smile, narrowing my eyes in my uncle’s direction. “I’ve learned a lot from Frank and Tom both.”
“Oh I bet you have,” Patrick chimes in. “I forgot to mention, I saw Eden and Frank coming out of Faye’s Diner the other day when I popped into town.”
Uncle Jerrod shoots me a glare at the mention of Frank, but goes back to shoving a forkful of chicken pot pie into his mouth.
“Yeah? And what were you doing in town, Patrick? Looking to restock your liquor cabinet at the spirits store?” I jest with a smirk.
Patrick chuckles and takes another long pull of his booze. “I was there on business. I had to go to the bank, deposit some cash. Some of us around here actually earn our living in a respectable manner.”
“Alright Patrick, stop being rude to your cousin,” Martha speaks up.
“Right,” I drawl. “Because we all know you couldn’t actually hold a real job on account of you being a fucking drunk.”
Uncle Jerrod’s fork clangs off his plate. “Both of you quit the bickering. I have a headache and I’m not in the mood tonight.”
I’m not in the mood either and I’ve had enough of this one, big happy family bullshit.
I smirk at my uncle. “We’re not bickering uncle Jerrod. We’re just having fun, right Paddy Boy?”
I can tell being called “Paddy Boy” really strikes a chord with both Patrick and Jerrod. After all, that’s one of the nicknames Frank likes to call Patrick.
“Dad, are you really going to let her talk to me like this? In my own home?” Patrick whines like a spoiled brat.
“Your own home Patrick? I didn’t realize this was your own home,” Uncle Jerrod quips to his son.
Martha looks between me and her husband and son, quickly bringing up the weather to change the subject. “It’s supposed to snow next week. They’re calling for twelve inches, maybe more.”
“Don’t change the subject Mom!” Patrick fusses, throwing his own fork down on his plate. “Seriously Dad? You’re going to let this pauper disrespect me? Come on!”
“Patrick, you’re drunk. Time for you to call it a night,” my uncle says coolly.
I’m surprised to find my uncle’s not rushing to the aid of his worthless son like he usually does. Something must have recently happened between the two that I’m not privy to. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I’ll take it as a win tonight.
Patrick shoots me an evil scowl as he takes his beer and stomps out of the dining room like a toddler, his footsteps pounding up the stairs.
“Jesus Jerrod, can’t we get through one family dinner without it turning into a personal attack?” Martha asks him.
Uncle Jerrod wipes at his mouth and tosses his napkin on the plate before standing up. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
He leaves the room, one angry fist clenched at his side as he runs the other hand through his hair. Martha shakes her head and looks at me sympathetically.
“Eden, I’m so sorry for all of this.”
I take a hefty guzzle of the wine I use as a crutch to get through these family dinners before I respond to my aunt. “No need to apologize to me aunt Martha. Besides, your husband said I needed to be a part of this family. So that’s what I’m doing. Having dinner. With my family.”
Martha can’t detect the sarcasm in my voice or maybe she does and chooses not to address it. After all, she’s a woman who doesn’t like confrontation. She says nothing else, getting up from the table and making her own exit. Leaving me there alone to eat in silence, a small playing on my face.
….
By Saturday night, I decide to kick things up a notch. I suffered every night after that dinner a few nights before, not getting the last laugh. These rules and regulations my uncle has imposed on me are childish and pointless. Not allowing me to go out after work, like I need to be kept on probation or something. There’s only one person I know who can fix all of this, even if it involves me probably getting kicked out. At least I’ll go out with a bang. I called Frank earlier in the day and asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner.
“You’re joking right?” He laughed into the phone.
“Nope, you’ll be my guest of honor. In fact, my aunt said it was a good idea for us to get to know you better. She said I could invite Tom too but I figured he’d be too tanked to show up,” I lied.
Aunt Martha said no such thing. But Frank agreed to it just the same. I told him to show up at 6pm, just in time for dinner. Knowing the perpetual dislike Frank has towards my family and their own mutual dislike towards him, I can only imagine just how much my surprise dinner guest will shock the hell out of them.
At five minutes til six, the doorbell rings. Everyone has taken their customary place at the large dining room table and Jerrod’s eyebrow raises in suspicion.
“I’ll get it,” I offer up, sliding from my chair with deliberate ease and walking to the front door.
Swinging the door back reveals Frank Griffith in the flesh, a smirk on his face like he owns this place and a bottle of wine tucked his arm. He’s dressed in a navy blue sweater, dark wash jeans and his cowboy boots, which are a light tan color. His hair is slicked back just right, the lighting in the foyer dancing off the bit of gray in his hair. My pulse quickens and for a moment, I pretend to hate that it does.
“Eden,” Frank says smoothly, stepping inside and brushing past me. He smells like a mixture of cigarettes and cologne, something masculine and undeniably Frank that lingers in the air.
“Come on in,” I tell him with a wink, although my heart’s racing.
His boots thud against the polished hardwood floors behind me as we head into the dining room. The room falls so silent, you can nearly hear a pin drop. The expressions on their faces are absolutely priceless. If I could take a picture and freeze this moment for all of eternity, it would be worth it just for their facial expressions alone.
“What the hell’s he doing here?” Patrick hisses to Jerrod.
“Hi everybody,” Frank greets them, clearly unbothered by the unreceptive attitude he’s being met with.
“Eden,” Martha begins, her tone quivering. “I didn’t realize you were bringing a guest.”
Frank looks at me, one eyebrow arched in intrigue since I told him my aunt had invited him, but he lets it roll off his back.
“I didn’t mean to intrude, but I figured I’d drop by and see how things are going out here at the vineyard,” Frank announces, holding the bottle of wine out.
My aunt takes it reluctantly and sits it on the table. “Well come on in and sit down, Mr. Griffith. Let me go get you a plate.”
Martha rushes off to the kitchen to get a plate and some utensils while Frank settles into the chair next to me. At the head of the table sits my uncle, whose face is a mask of controlled rage.
“Good evening Frank,” Jerrod mumbles before taking a sip of his drink. I can tell having Frank as a guest at the Tyler family dining table is like a bad case of hemorrhoids.
Martha returns, setting down a plate full of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and some broccoli in front of Frank. She slips him some silverware tucked inside of a cloth napkin and then pours him a glass of iced tea. He thanks her and looks over at me, a subtle smile on his face.
“So, what brings you to our part of the world Mr. Griffith?” My aunt asks Frank, her tone strained, but civil.
“Oh, just out for a quiet Saturday evening ride. Figured I’d come by and see how my favorite vintners are doing,” Frank responds pleasantly but I can tell he’s not being genuine.
“How good of you to drop in,” Patrick mutters. “Unannounced and uninvited.”
“Yeah Patrick, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Frank answers smoothly, his smile wolfish. “The last time I saw you, you weren’t doing so hot. Tell me, did you ever go and get help for your…affliction?”
I nearly snort, quickly taking a sip of my iced tea. Frank looks over at me again and winks, his blue eyes sparkling naughtily.
“Affliction?” Patrick snaps. “What affliction? I’m not sick!”
Frank chuckles, his tongue darting out of his mouth like a serpent to lick his full lips. “Sure, Pat. I was only trying to be respectful of your condition, you know? The alcoholism that is.”
“Griffith,” Jerrod growls. “That’s enough.”
“Relax,” Frank says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just busting his balls a little. Right, Pat?”
“My name is Patrick,” My cousin spits.
I take a bite of my mashed potatoes, already enjoying whatever uncharted territory this family dinner’s about to head into. A few minutes of silence falls upon us all, the only noise the scraping of forks and knives against the plates that we eat from.
“So, how’s things going around here at Fox Ridge? How are the grapes looking this season?” Frank turns his attention to my uncle.
“Fine. Everything is just fine at Fox Ridge,” Jerrod mumbles unconvincingly.
“Glad to hear that,” Frank responds. “Speaking of fine. Martha, did you prepare this fine meal? I didn’t realize you actually cooked.”
Frank’s faux compliment doesn’t fall on deaf ears as everyone at the table besides me shoots a look of indignation in his direction.
“I cook,” Martha lies, a tight smile on her thin lips. “Glad you’re enjoying it.”
There’s a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence, Caroline’s eyes darting around nervously as she tries to get a grasp of whatever unfinished business Frank has with our family. I know she’s not stupid and knows who Frank is, but I wonder just how much she actually knows.
“Why the fuck did you invite him here anyway?” Patrick bursts through the silence, pointing a forkful of chicken in my direction. “You’re trying to embarrass this family, aren’t you?”
“Embarrass this family?” Frank scoffs. “I’d say you do a pretty bang up job of that all by yourself.”
I don’t bother to hold back my laughter and my uncle narrows his eyes at me like a pit viper.
“That’s enough rehashing of the past Frank,” Jerrod says sharply.
Frank sits his fork down and leans forward on the table. “Oh, I’m not rehashing the past,” he says innocently. “Just saying, I’m glad I could help this family out every time Paddy Boy put you in all of those…shall we say, compromising positions.”
Jerrod’s fork rattles on his plate and he points a finger in Frank’s direction. “Quit while you’re ahead, Griffith.”
“Three times,” Frank continues, completely unfazed. “Three separate drunk driving incidents all swept under the rug by yours truly. I say I’ve earned my place at this table.”
Patrick’s face flushes even more red than it normally is, the mixture of both anger and alcoholism simmering in his pores. “I never asked for your help,” he snaps. “That was all my dad’s idea.”
“And a damn good one too,” Frank replies, his tone a bit firmer now. “Unless you think prison stripes would’ve been a better look for you.”
The tension in the room thickens, the silence stretching like a taut wire. Patrick’s hand tightens around the stem of his wine glass before he takes a nervous gulp of it. Frank leans back in his chair with infuriating ease.
“You’re a real piece of shit,” Patrick mutters, his voice low but trembling with anger.
“Funny,” Frank laughs, wiping his mouth with the napkin. “I was just about to say the same thing about you.”
Jerrod slams his palm on the table, the sound reverberating through the room. “Enough damnit! Both of you!”
Frank looks over and winks at me again. I have to admit I’m enjoying this family dinner more than I ever anticipated.
“I’m just here to enjoy a home cooked meal, Jerrod,” Frank says innocently once again, with the charm of a choir boy. “No harm meant. I think we can all agree that honesty is the best policy though.”
“Honesty? Surprised that word’s even in your vocabulary,” Jerrod huffs with a scowl.
“Yeah, you would be surprised, huh? Speaking of honesty, Jerrod. I gotta say. Have you been honest with your own family? Rumors have been cooking in town, about how the finances here at Fox Ridge aren’t exactly up to snuff,” Frank’s voice is silky smooth.
I see the cracks in my uncle’s facade start to splinter and all eyes in the room are on Frank as he presses the subject further with my uncle. I’m surprised to hear there’s any monetary issues going on around here, but if they were, I’d be the last person to know anyway.
“I mean, they could just be rumors, you know? Made up by people who have nothing else better to do. But you know what they say about rumors, they’re best handled if you address them. Otherwise they just stick around.”
“Get to the point, Griffith,” Jerrod barks.
“The point is Jerrod, you might want to consider settling a few debts of yours before you start droning on about the big, bad, family legacy again. I heard you’ve been looking to expand the farm. And if the wrong people get ahold of that information, well. Wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen,” Frank announces.
The room goes deathly silent. My heart’s pounding in my chest but I don’t dare look away. Frank isn’t just needling my family anymore, this is a full blown power play, a way for Frank to get the upper hand and everyone at the table knows it.
“You son of a bitch,” Jerrod mutters, his voice barely audible.
Frank smirks and takes another sip of the iced tea. “Just a friendly reminder, that’s all. And remember Jerrod, if you need help crawling out of this mess, you can always count on me to be your fixer yet again.”
Jerrod growls something under his breath and continues eating his food. Frank turns his gaze back to me and for a moment, everyone else in the room fades away. His blue eyes are piercing, filled with something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Curiosity? Or maybe it’s the thrill of a challenge.
“How very noble of you,” Caroline finally chimes in sarcastically. She’s been unusually quiet tonight and I figured it was only a matter of time before she opened up her mouth.
Frank turns his attention towards her, his smile softening but never falters. “And you must be Caroline. The drunken Little Lord Fauntleroy’s trophy wife. Sweetheart, how noble does it feel to he married to a raging drunk while the two of you live here with your in laws at your grown up age? Hmmm?”
Martha stands up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I think that’s enough for one night. Thank you for joining us Frank, but I think it’s time you left.”
Frank’s hand brushes against my thigh under the table and he gives it a light squeeze before he removes it and stands up. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome during such a heartwarming and honest family dinner.”
“Good,” Patrick huffs. “Time for you to get the fuck out.”
Martha raises a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide at Patrick’s outburst. “Patrick, please stop!” She then turns her attention back to Frank. “Mr. Griffith, just leave, will you?”
Frank swipes the bottle of wine he’d brought with him off the table. “I wanted to bring this vintage Merlot out here, thinking maybe you all would drink it and get clued in on how real wine is actually made. Not this half baked grape juice you try to pass off as wine.”
Then he smirks and turns to me, looking down at me with a casual smile that’s infuriating to everyone else and quite sexy to me. “Eden, thanks for the invite. It’s been a pleasure, as always.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I respond quietly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
With one last glance around the table, Frank snickers and heads for the door, his cowboy boots echoing on the hardwood floors. As the door closes behind him, everyone’s eyes are on me, a mixture of rage and confusion displayed on their faces.
Jerrod slams his hand on the table, causing all the dishes to rattle. “What the hell were you thinking, inviting that slick son of a bitch into my home?” He demands, his voice thunderous as he shoots daggers at me.
I shrug, unfazed. “I thought it would be nice to have a guest for dinner.”
“Bullshit!” Patrick speaks up after he’s drained the last gulp of wine out of his glass. “She did it on purpose! She invited him here to make a mockery of us all!”
“Shut up Patrick,” Jerrod seethes. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut too, but you just had to keep egging him on, didn’t you?”
I laugh, emitting an icy stare from Caroline.
“What’s so funny Eden? You suddenly think you’re better than us?” She questions me.
“Oh I don’t think it Caroline, I know it. See, I’m not some snobby puke with my head stuck up my ass. I’m a genuine person. Something more than any of you hypocrites can say for yourselves,” I fire back.
“You’re treading a thin line,” Jerrod snaps. “Remember what I told you.”
“Oh yeah? What are you doing to do uncle Jerrod? Kick me out? Go ahead! I don’t give a fuck anymore! If it means I never have to sit at this table with any of you again, I’ll take it,” I retort, throwing my fork onto the plate.
“Go ahead Eden, you won’t be missed. Take your pills and run along now,” Patrick smirks.
“Pills?” Martha questions.
“Yeah. Don’t act so surprised, Mom. Eden thinks she’s better than us but she has her own share of problems. She’s been popping them like candy since she first got here,” Patrick announces proudly like he’s discovered the cure for cancer.
“What’s he talking about?” Jerrod prods, his eyes burning with rage. “What pills?”
“So what?” I holler. “Yeah, I take pills! And I have to, to deal with this fucking shit show of a family! What’s it to you, Patrick? Don’t you have another DUI to catch?”
“You’ve always been a little cunt, you know that? Ever since we were kids, I always knew you were pure trash,” Patrick spews his vitriol, grabbing the bottle of wine from the middle of the table and splashing some more into his glass.
I laugh and heave my chair back from the table, getting up as I snatch the dinner roll off of my plate. “Sticks and stones, Paddy Boy. Go ahead, drink up. Caroline, make sure you hide the keys to his Benz. Wouldn’t want him to go out and murder some poor, unfortunate soul on the road tonight.”
Martha briskly exits the dining room, muffled sobs escaping her mouth before she can make it down the hallway. Caroline’s jaw hangs open and Patrick’s busy taking my advice, draining his wine glass to the last drop. I’m halfway out of the room before I hear my uncle’s voice behind me.
“Eden, you’ve got until next Friday to get out of the guesthouse. You’ve caused enough drama since you got here and I won’t stand for this blatant disrespect and disregard for our hospitality towards you.”
I don’t bother to respond, gliding out of the room with the dinner roll tucked between my teeth. I slam the door behind me, laughing in irritation as I walk back down to the guesthouse. And when I get there, I’m surprised to find Frank’s car parked and he’s leaning against it.
Frank grins as I approach him. “Some dinner, huh?”
“Fuck, Frank,” I laugh. “I don’t know where all of that came from but it was worth it, just to see the look on their faces when you walked in.”
He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. “What can I say? I have a way of commanding a room wherever I go.”
“Why’d you stick around anyway? I figured you’d be halfway home by now.” I ask.
“Well, I thought it wouldn’t be much longer after I left before you got the boot too. I guess I wanted to hear what happened. I’m sure you gave ‘em hell, didn’t you?”
“Something like that. Jerrod officially kicked me out of the guesthouse. Said I have until Friday to get my things out.”
Frank’s face softens and for a moment he looks concerned. “What a bastard, kicking his niece out. What are you gonna do?”
“I guess I’ll find a rental place somewhere in town. I can’t be bothered to deal with that right now, though. I’m exhausted and want to go to bed.”
“Nonsense,” Frank shakes his head. “You can stay with me. I’ve got a spare bedroom with an attached bath. You’ll have your privacy.”
“Frank, I couldn’t do that. I work for you. I’m not trying to spend every waking hour with you,” I nervously laugh off his invite although my mind is reeling from his endeavor. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat charmed about the idea of what Frank Griffith is like outside of his law office.
“Well, it’s an offer. And it’s the right thing to do. Besides, I’m not a heartless sack of shit like your dear uncle back there,” Frank gestures towards the main house. “But it’s your choice. No pressure of course.”
“I’ll think about it,” I smile, weighing the weight of his invitation in my mind. My uncle would go absolutely bat shit insane if he knew I might move in with Frank. “Thanks for coming to dinner.”
“Anytime,” Frank nods his head. “I wouldn’t have missed that opportunity for the world. I’m sure they’re up there nursing their wounds right about now.”
I’m suddenly not feeling so tired, feeling amped up from the whole events that just transpired. “Actually, I changed my mind. Do you think you could take me somewhere?”
Frank’s eyebrow raises with intrigue. “What’d you have in mind?”
“I don’t care, Frank. Anywhere. Just get me the hell out of here.”
Frank smiles, walking around to open the passenger door of the Lincoln for me. “Well, I know just the place. Come on. Let’s have some real fun.”
….
Half an hour later, Frank’s leading me into The Pink Room, the town of Metuchen’s oldest institution of hedonistic pleasure. I’d heard Tom mention the place quite often and I always wondered exactly what it was. It only takes mere seconds for me to realize I’m walking into a strip club once the bouncer closes the doors behind us.
The Pink Room is appropriately named, hues of neon pink bathing the large room in sultry light. Low bass thumps from the club’s sound system and women flaunt themselves on stage, some completely nude and the others in the process of shedding their undergarments.
Frank’s hand finds the small of my back as we push through the crowd of men and a few women who come to The Pink Room to indulge in their own fun.
“Hey Frank,” a cocktail waitress approaches us, wearing an outfit that leaves little to the imagination. “It’s not Wednesday night is it?”
“Ruby,” Frank greets her, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “It’s not Wednesday, but I wanted to bring a friend out here for a good time. You think you can get us a prime spot?”
“Of course,” The redheaded Ruby replies. “Come on, sugar. You know we always make sure to save you the best seat in the house.”
Frank and I follow Ruby as she leads us to a quiet wraparound booth in the corner that offers us a good shot of the stage. Dark pink velvet curtains drape around the booth, creating an intimate atmosphere. The way the curtains fall sends a thrill through me. I don’t fail to notice the curtains look like a woman’s vulva.
I slip into one side and Frank slips into the other, our bodies not quite meeting. Frank reaches into his wallet, passing Ruby a ten dollar bill. “Bring me a whiskey on the rocks. And whatever she wants.”
Ruby looks a me, a sweet smile painted onto her face. “What are you having, honey?”
“I’ll take a seven and seven,” I tell her. She nods and walks away, her hips sashaying deliberately with each step.
“So,” Frank begins. “How’s this for some real fun?”
Any other woman might get pissed at the idea of a man bringing them to a strip club but I’m not like other women. I’m no stranger to wild nights although it’s been years since I last stepped foot inside of a strip club.
“Not bad. Better than I anticipated.”
Frank chuckles and lights a cigarette, sticking the pack out to me. I take one from him and lean down as he flicks his Zippo to life and lights it for me. I take a long drag on the cigarette, thankful for the heady buzz I get.
“Good. Since you’re not as uptight as you were when I first met you, I figured it’s time to acquaint you with one of mine and Tom’s favorite haunts,” Frank elaborates then pauses to take a drag on his Marlboro. “Well, Tom more so than me. I usually come here on Wednesdays, not every Wednesday though.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Frank Griffith,” I tell him with sly grin. “You’re a man aren’t you?”
Frank’s laugh is low and rumbles in his chest as he looks me over. “Yes Eden, I’m a man alright. A man who’s not afraid to indulge in a little action every now and then.”
Ruby saunters back to the table, teetering in white patent leather heels that must be five inches tall. She sets our drinks down on the table in front of us both, leaning forward to give Frank a good look at her ample cleavage.
“Thanks baby,” Frank winks at her and slips her a twenty dollar bill this time. She puckers her lips at him, tucking the cash in between her breasts and disappears.
“You know, you’re not the first member of your family to set foot inside of this fine establishment,” Frank announces with a smirk.
I nearly spit out my drink, choking back a laugh. “What?”
“Yeah, your uncle Jer stopped by during Pat’s last DUI back in ‘92. He was so desperate for my help, he bribed the bouncer with a Ben Franklin just to talk to me. I could tell this place probably rocked his bland fucking world. He looked like he was ready to keel over from a stroke the entire time.”
“God I can only imagine the look on his face.”
“That’s not all,” Frank presses forward. “Pat himself had his bachelor party here before he went and got hitched to that eating disorder he calls a wife.”
“How’d you know Caroline has an eating disorder?”
“Heh,” Frank chortles. “The way she spent the entire dinner rearranging the food on her plate? Come on Eden, you already know I’m a man who makes his living by reading people.”
“You mean exploiting them,” I correct him although my voice lacks any bite.
He raises his eyebrow in superiority and takes a sip of his whiskey. “I do what needs to be done. That’s why people like your family pay me so well. Because I can make their problems go away with the drop of a hat.”
I don’t say anything, just take another puff of my cigarette before flicking it into the ashtray. I take another sip of my drink, feeling the warmth spread through my chest, grounding me to the moment. My mind drifts back to the earlier events in the evening where Frank made every living member of my uncle’s (except for me) family look like a complete idiot. I also haven’t forgotten the way his hand slid up my thigh under the table before he got kicked out. Another few sips of my cocktail and all that’s left is the ice that rattles when I slam the glass down on the table.
Frank watches me the entire time, a look of amusement and something darker on his face. Under the pink lights of The Pink Room, he looks even more handsome. Without thinking, I slide over so I’m closer to Frank and brush my hand across his thigh.
Frank’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat but he doesn’t display any kind of annoyance. He takes another drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke out of his nose as it curls around him. “What do you think you’re doing Eden?”
“Nothing,” I respond wryly. “Just returning the favor.” With that I brush my hand a bit higher up his thigh.
“What favor?” Frank’s voice is liquid velvet, his pale blue eyes glinting as he leans closer to me.
“Don’t act like you didn’t touch my thigh under the table back at the family dinner,” I laugh.
Frank’s smirk deepens and leans forward to extinguish his cigarette in the ashtray before leaning back against the booth. “You’re full of shit,” he murmurs, slipping one arm around my shoulder, pulling me even closer. “But I’ll bite. What kind of favor are we talking about?”
My pulse quickens at the thrill of it all, the space between Frank and I shrinking. I open my mouth to answer but before I can, one of the curtains is yanked back, flooding the cozy booth with a chaos that could only belong to Tom Wolfe.
“Frank, you bastard!” Tom staggers inside, reeking of booze and weed, flanked by a girl who looks no more than nineteen if she’s lucky. Her barely-there outfit sparkles under the club’s lights and she giggles uncontrollably, clearly as hammered as Tom is. Tom’s hair is mussed up like he just got done having hot and sweaty sex with this young woman in the Cadillac or perhaps in the men’s restroom.
Frank groans, untethering himself from me, his jaw tightening. “Christ, Tom. Always one for an interruption.”
Tom looks from Frank to me, a sneer look on his face, plopping down in the booth while his childish sidekick scooches in next to him. “Sorry, Frankie. I didn’t realize we were having a staff meeting for Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys At Law. If so I would’ve brushed my hair first.”
“And your teeth too,” I mumble under my breath.
“What are you doing here, Eden? On a date with the big boss?” Tom laughs.
“It’s not a date,” Frank corrects Tom. “Eden here’s had a bit of a rough night. I told her I’d show her some fun.”
A sarcastic smile fills Tom’s face and he laughs throatily. “Sure you did. Figured you show her a bit of the ‘ol Frank Griffith special, huh? Take her to The Pink Room and maybe finger bang her later on.”
The young woman at Tom’s side giggles wildly and I see Frank’s none too pleased. “Tom, tell the schoolgirl to take a hike. I don’t need to listen to her tee-heeing like a child all night.”
“Alright honey, go buy yourself another drink,” Tom digs through his wallet, passing her some crumpled up bills. “Daddy’s got some business to handle for now.”
She laughs all the way out of the booth, barely able to stand as she staggers her way across the room to the bar.
“Where’d you find her, Wolfe? Northfield High?” Frank cracks.
“Not hardly, Frank. I’m no pedophile. She said she was eighteen,” Tom huffs.
Frank shakes his head in disgust. “Said she was eighteen and actually being eighteen are two different things, Tommy. You’re a goddamn disaster waiting to happen.”
Tom lights a cigarette, clearly too smashed to care about Frank’s accusation. “And YOU love it my friend!” Tom’s voice booms.
“Yeah, it’s a real love affair,” Frank deadpans.
Tom turns his attention to me. “So what happened anyway? You have a bad night or some shit?”
“Eden invited me to family dinner over at Jerrod and Martha’s castle,” Frank begins. “Turned into a real circus. Our young paralegal here held her own though. Uncle Jerrod kicked her out of the guesthouse. Told her to be out by next Friday.”
Tom guffaws loudly, nearly hacking up phlegm. “No shit? What you’d say, sweetie? Get your uncle all worked up about his self indulgent son?”
“Pretty much. And I reminded them that they’re all hypocrites and I’d rather be anywhere else than sitting at their table. It was cathartic,” I answer.
“Cathartic,” Tom echoes, still laughing like a hyena. “I’ll bet Jerrod was ready to have a stroke and Patrick probably drank his liver into near cirrhosis. I’m sure Martha cried and Patrick’s wife…well anyway, who gives a shit about her? Good for you Eden, standing up to your sanctimonious tribe.”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “It was worth it.”
Frank grins at me, his expression something close to admiration. “You should’ve been there Tom. I even got in a few punches too. Like Eden said, it was cathartic. It’s about time the Tyler family gets put in their place.”
About that time, Ruby returns, eager to get us more drinks. Tom orders a bottle of Cristal for the table, clearly in the mood to celebrate over a bottle of posh French bubbles. I order another seven and seven and Frank waves her off, instead opting to finish slow sipping his whiskey.
She returns a few minutes later, just as Tom’s telling Frank about his latest scam. Tom pops the bottle of champagne with the finesse of an experienced wine-o.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” Tom says once we’ve all got a glass of Cristal. “To our girl, Eden. Paralegal powerhouse and the only member of the Tyler family who’s not a holier-than-thou twat.”
“Charming,” Frank drawls, tipping his glass against Tom’s, then mine. But he doesn’t take a sip right away, just studies me with those handsome eyes of his and winks at me before he downs some of it.
….
Later that night, Frank drops me off back at the guesthouse, well past midnight. He’d asked before he turned off onto Stonewall Road if I wanted to spend the night with him.
“I’ll pass,” I told him.
If Frank was disappointed, he didn’t show it outwardly. He just smiled at me, nodding his head like he wanted to savor the moment for another day. “Fair enough.”
There was no further exploration of whatever we were about to delve into back at The Pink Room, before Tom showed up and commandeered the rest of our evening. There was no good night kiss, just me thanking Frank for getting me out of dodge.
“Anytime darlin’,” he said to bid me good night.
I went to bed with a pleasant feeling, made even more pleasant by popping a couple of Xanax pills before I passed out on the couch.
Not long after Frank dropped me off, uncle Jerrod stood in his study barely containing the anger he still felt from dinner. He loomed at the window of the study like a sentinel, watching in disdain as Frank Griffith’s car drove off into the night. Patrick, ever the faithful fuck up son, stood next to him, well past the point of being legally intoxicated.
“I should’ve put my foot down sooner,” Jerrod said quietly, more to himself than Patrick. “I should’ve told her no when she called me up wanting to be rescued from whatever situation she got herself into back in New York City.”
“But you didn’t Dad,” Patrick said bluntly, despite his boozy state. “And now that bastard Frank Griffith’s got his claws in her. Hell, he’s got his claws in all of us.”
Jerrod continues on, “I should’ve said no guesthouse. No freeloading. And definitely no Frank Griffith!”
“Way to go, Pops. And I bet he was down there fucking her in the guesthouse the whole time after dinner. Wanna bet money on it?” Patrick said with a lazy grin.
Jerrod downed the rest of his brandy, the burn doing little to soothe the his inflammation. He turned away from the window and set the empty glass down on his desk with more force than necessary.
“Go to bed Patrick. I’ve had enough of your histrionics for one night,” Jerrod said gruffly.
Patrick smirked in return but didn’t argue. He pushed out of the room, stumbling towards the door as he made his way upstairs, leaving Jerrod alone with his inner rage in the dimly lit room.
Chapter 10: Vicious
Summary:
Eden adjusts to her new living space at Frank Griffith’s domain.
Notes:
Obviously this is fiction so I’m not familiar with how inheritance laws work, I’m just making things up for the sake of the story.
Chapter Text
The Monday after the ill fated family dinner that sealed my fate with my Uncle Jerrod, Frank Griffith and Tom Wolfe are in Frank’s office after hours. While I’m at back at Fox Ridge chain smoking my way through a pack of Marlboro Lights with Will and Christina, the two “legal eagles” are in the throes of discussing their diabolical plan.
“You asked her to what?” Tom shouts at Frank, pacing the office like a caged animal.
Frank, ever the master of control, sits at his desk, his cowboy boots kicked up on it in usual fashion and watches Tom lose his shit from behind his cloud of cigarette smoke.
“I said I asked her to move in,” Frank casually responds with a smirk.
Tom’s blue eyes are bloodshot, and he’s still hungover from the previous evening. He blinks his eyes rapidly on account of the coke he’d snorted before he holed himself up in Frank’s office. He blows his bottom lip out, shaking his head from side to side like this is the worst idea he’s ever heard.
“Jesus H. Christ, Frank! What the fuck are you thinking here? This is your master plan? Invite Eden fuckin’ Tyler to play house with you?” Tom responds angrily, slapping an angry fist down on a stack of case files on the corner of Frank’s desk.
Frank puffs his cigarette with an infuriatingly calm ease, clearly not as riled up as Tom is.
“Tommy,” Frank says too smooth. “If I wanted your input, I would’ve asked. But I didn’t. So take a chill pill.”
Tom stops pacing and presses both hands on Frank’s desk, leaning down to him. “This is the dumbest goddamn idea you’ve ever had. Eden’s not just some mark. She’s our fuckin’ paralegal! And worst of all, she’s Jerrod’s niece! It’s one thing to have her working here, it’s a whole other thing to invite her into your home!”
“Well what do you propose, genius? Tell me Tom, I’m genuinely interested in whatever you think you can put together with the ten brain cells you might have left,” Frank says sarcastically.
“Oh fuck you,” Tom rips, sinking down in the chair across from the desk. “It certainly wouldn’t involve inviting her to move in with me. She’s got loyalty to her family, remember? Jerrod might’ve kicked her out but at the end of the day, blood’s thicker than water.”
Frank’s smirk vanishes. He kicks his feet off his desk and stands up, knuckles wrapped around the edge of his desk as he leers over Tom. “She doesn’t have loyalty, dumbass. She has nothing. No family, no safety net. She’s vulnerable, Tommy. And people who are vulnerable are easy to steer.”
Tom snorts, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, the ones with permanent sweat stains in the pits, and pulls out a flask. “Sure, steer her into your bed, right? Is this still about the vineyard or are you just thinking with your dick now?”
Frank sits back down, taking a long and deliberate drag of his cigarette before he grinds it out in the ashtray. “You’ve got a real knack for pissing me off, you know? Let me spell it out for you: Eden moves in, she gets comfortable. She won’t even see it coming and if she does, it’ll be too late and the family will all be sitting in the cooler down at Mick Turner’s funeral home. By then, she’ll be so busy playing the role of the grieving niece she won’t have time to think about anything else. She’ll inherit everything thanks to the survival clause in Jerrod’s will.”
Tom freezes before taking a sip from his flask. “What survival clause?”
Frank grins like the Cheshire Cat. “New York state law. Jerrod’s will stipulates that if his immediate family members predecease him or they die together, the estate passes to the next of kin. That’s Eden. It’s airtight.”
“Bullshit,” Tom scoffs. “How do you even know that? Hell, that prick’s probably already revised his will ten times over by now since this past weekend. I doubt he would leave her a dime.”
“Because, I already had someone look into that for me. Eden will have to go through a probate process with the court but with yours truly acting as her legal counsel, I’ll get it expedited so the keys to Fox Ridge will be hers in record time,” Frank delivers confidently.
Tom shakes his head like he’s unconvinced and apparently unfamiliar with how the laws of estate planning operate—a field he once had experience in. “Ok, so she inherits the vineyard and everything else. What makes you think she’ll sell?”
“She’s broke Tom,” Frank begins, a sick grin on his face. “If she had something, she wouldn’t be moving in with me, now would she? I’ll make sure she sees the value of selling that dump. You think she’s going to want a pile of vines, Christmas trees and all the headaches that come with running that place? Hell no! She’ll take the money and run. And with me setting it all up, I’ll get a hefty cut and so will you.”
Tom pauses to reflect Frank’s grand plan, chewing on the inside of his cheek like it’s a festering wound. “Whatever, Frank. What if Eden decides she wants to play queen of Fox Ridge and screws up the whole plan? Four people knocked off for nothing!”
“It’s not for nothing, Wolfe. Trust me, the world won’t weep when Jerrod and the rest of his family goes out in a tragic carbon monoxide freak accident. Hell, I’m sure plenty of folks here in Northfield will be pleased to see them finally get their due. Don’t act like you’ve got a conscious now. You’re the one who helped concoct this deal, suggesting we gas them like it’s Auschwitz,” Frank says, his voice low and gravelly, laced with irritation.
“You’re a cold fuck Frank Griffith,” Tom chuckles bitterly. “Just don’t let get her too close. You’re good but you’re not invincible. If this goes south…”
Frank’s gaze hardens and he shakes his head. “It won’t, Tommy. Keep your mouth shut and stick to the plan. I’ve got something fun planned for Eden in the meantime. Let’s call it a telling of truths. I had Ron Fahey do some more digging around for me. Remember Ed Collins, her married lover and boss? Well I asked Ron for the names of the people working for Ed in that little staff photo in Eden’s dossier. Picked out one of the pleasantly plump chicks on the team to tell Eden her knight in shining armor was throwing this hefty gal the bone too. Of course it’s not true, but it’ll help Eden see she doesn’t need to live in the past anymore.”
Tom scowls and drains the rest of his flask. “And? What’ll that solve? Lying to her? You’ll just piss her off and the whole plan goes to shit!”
Frank disregards Tom’s claim with a dismissive swat of his hand. “No it won’t. Eden’s had a history of being around toxic masculinity, excluding us of course. She had Ed, whom she thought was Mr. Perfect. Ed kicks her to the curb and then she calls up uncle Jerrod wanting a place to start fresh in. That went to hell because we helped cultivate the seeds of sorrow. She turns to me for help and I’m the one who gives it to her. It might be a hard pill for her to swallow at first but let’s face it, we know she likes pills right? Eden needs a man who can tell her the truth. Who isn’t going to bullshit her and let her down. She needs me, Tommy.”
“Right, because you’re haven’t been bullshitting her from the start,” Tom chuckles. “I don’t think your little tough love approach is going to cause her fall into your arms. If anything it’ll just blow up in your face. I’m telling you Frankie, I’ve already got this shit figured out!”
“You don’t have shit figured out, Wolfe. I know the rule book because I wrote it. Alright? And if happen to enjoy myself along the way, so be it. Besides, I’m sure she could use some male company in her life. God knows I wouldn’t mind getting a slice of her pie.” Frank announces, lacing his fingers behind his head as he leans back further in his chair.
“You’re sick Frank, really sick,” Tom mutters in disgust. “I’m no angel but this just feels wrong. Eden’s not so bad, you know? I kinda like having her around. Sure, she can be a twat when she wants but I don’t think you breaking her down and building her back up is going to work.”
“It’ll work goddamnit! I’m going to be her shelter from the storm! Not you! You really think you have what it takes to charm Eden? She’s the kind of woman who needs to be wooed and charmed by a worldly and put together man such as myself! Your idea of charm exists in prescription pills and taking her to The Pink Room for Jell-O shooters that you’ll roofie when she’s not looking and you won’t even be able to get it up when the time comes!” Frank hollers, his voice reverberating off the walls of his office.
“I never said I wanted to fuck her, Frank,” Tom spits, pointing a crooked finger at Frank. “That’s all you. I just think it’s cruel to lay all this shit on her. She’s had a rough life. No mom, no dad, and now no asshole uncle. You’re gonna end up causing her to eat a bullet or overdose and then guess what? We won’t get a fucking thing! It’ll be five dead Tylers instead of four!”
“Yeah, coming from the man who cried laughter reading her dossier. Let’s not forget you’ve enjoyed all of this too my friend,” Frank says with a calculating smile. “Eden will be eating out of my palm. It might not happen overnight but it’ll happen. I give it a couple of weeks if that. Wanna wager a bet?”
“Fuck no. I’m not betting against you. I’ve got better things to do with my time. We done here, Frank?” Tom stands up, locking eyes with Frank.
“Of course you won’t because you know it’s a bet you can’t win! But yeah Tommy, we’re done. Get outta here. I’ve heard of enough of you whining like a little bitch for one night.”
….
I’ve gotten a head start on moving out of the guesthouse. Why wait until Friday when I can do it now? It’s Wednesday evening, just a few days after the big showdown between my family and myself. Frank insisted I take off early from the office so I could go home and get my things.
“I’ve got a meeting tonight with a client,” Frank told me earlier in the day. “Tom will help you get your things over to my place. By the time you get all settled in, I’ll be on my way.”
I thought it was strange that Frank himself wouldn’t want to be the one to welcome me into his house for the first time but I knew by now Frank had a reason for everything he does and not to question the methods of his madness. Tom however looked less than enthused when Frank offered him up to give me a hand.
“What do I look like? A U-Haul?” Tom scoffed as he flicked his Camel Light into the trash heap on his desk, the ash and dying cigarette falling wherever they ended up. Tom smashed the butt out with the bottom of a liquor bottle. Real classy stuff.
“You look like whatever I tell you. Now go on, take a hike. And make sure you actually help Eden out,” Frank said with a smirk before giving me a key to his house.
Tom’s arrival at the guesthouse was a whirlwind like it is any other given day with him. He told me before we left the office that he had to make a pit stop and would meet me at the guesthouse. An hour after I got there, Tom finally showed up. Judging by his demeanor, his pit stop must’ve been to The Cornerstone Pub to drown his sorrows.
“What took you so long?” I asked him once I opened the door, seeing him looking even more worse for the wear and reeking of booze.
“I told you. I had to make a pit stop,” Tom grumbled, brushing past me as he stood in the living room, looking around, his face a mixture of both chagrin and delight.
“For a man of wealth, I would’ve expected more from your uncle,” Tom laughed, shaking his head. “This place is a gutter.”
“If you think this place is a gutter, I’d hate to see whatever dwelling you inhabit,” I retorted.
“Yeah? Well at least I own a house,” Tom shot back, his hands planted on his hips. “You’re pushing forty with no house of your own. And about to shack up with the boss at that. It’s risky business, Eden.”
“Just help me get my things, will you?” I snapped.
After a lot of huffing and puffing on Tom’s part, he loaded a few suitcases of clothes and some boxes in the backseat of his Cadillac while I had a few boxes piled up in my car. I said my goodbyes the day before with Will and Christina and a promise to see them again—away from Fox Ridge and maybe somewhere in town. There’s no sense in bidding anyone else farewell most of all, not any of my family. It wasn’t some grand act of cleansing to leave the guesthouse nor did I shed any tears. I was glad to get out of there and out from under my uncle Jerrod’s domineering ways. I once thought the man was like a second father but I’ve since learned the truth.
Now I follow behind Tom, his bedraggled Cadillac billowing smoke out the tailpipe all the way into the quiet suburbs Frank calls home just outside of town. The street name—Requiem Drive, feels like some bad omen but I push it aside as I turn into the driveway.
The house catches me off guard. A red brick Cape Cod with black shutters and a bright cardinal red door. It looks…normal. Storybook normal, even. Trimmed hedges border the front lawn, patches of snow clinging stubbornly to the frozen ground. For a man like Frank, I’d expected something less domestic and more…sinister.
“Are you sure this is Frank’s house?” I ask Tom as he slams his car door shut and wrangles all the energy he can to pick up one of my suitcases.
Tom scoffs in annoyance. “What, you thought he lived in a dungeon? Maybe a penthouse with secret passageways?”
“It’s just…unexpected, that’s all,” I honestly admit.
“Yeah, well you can be in awe of this cookie cutter special later. I’ve got better things to do be doing tonight so let’s get your shit in the house,” Tom mutters.
A few trips later, I stand inside of the entryway to Frank’s house, my suitcases and boxes piled up neatly by the staircase. The inside of Frank’s home is tastefully decorated, polished wood floors, classic furniture. Pieces of artwork on the walls, even some framed pictures of Frank but none of him with anyone else. It feels curated, like everything about him does. A facade designed to make me feel at ease. But the undercurrent of something darker tugs at the corners of my mind.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tom laughs. “Looks like Frank went full Martha Stewart with the place since I was last here. I bet he’s even got matching towels in the bathroom.”
I ignore him, wandering further into the house. The air smells faintly of cedar and the sharp tang of Frank’s ever present cigarettes. The living room is just as polished as the entryway, with dark leather armchairs and a matching couch, as well as a hearty brick fireplace. A television displayed on a cherry wood credenza, surrounded by a couple framed photos—an older black and white portrait of Frank holding up his law degree wearing a cap and gown, and one of him as a young boy. Even then he had that familiar, devilish look in his eye. of A built in bookshelf on one side of the fireplace is lined with legal tomes and novels. It looks like the kind of room where crooked deals are made in and not a place that’s actually lived in.
Tom follows close behind, whistling an annoying tune. “What’s the matter, Eden? Cat got your tongue? I thought you’d be drooling all over this highbrow shit compared to that trash heap we just moved you out of.”
I turn over my shoulder to glare at him. “Do you ever shut up?”
Tom grins and shrugs his shoulders. “No, not really. But hey, I call it like I see it. And what I see here is a guy who spends way too much time trying to convince people he’s got his shit together. Typical narcissist too. No photos of anyone but dear Frankie.”
I continue to pay no attention to Tom’s antics and walk from the living room that connects to an open kitchen. The space is modern: granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a wine rack stocked to the brim. Above the kitchen island on the ceiling is a rack decked with heavy looking pots and pans suspended from it. On the counter next to the sink, a half empty bottle of red wine sits with a glass next to it, a faint smudge of dark red lipstick on the rim. In fact, it looks like the bottle of vintage Merlot Frank had brought to my family dinner from hell this past weekend, taking it with him once he was kicked out. Apparently he enjoyed that bottle with someone else.
Tom notices it too and lets out a low laugh. “Looks like our pal Frank had some company. Wonder if she left her lipstick mark on him too?”
“Gross, Tom.”
Tom guffaws obnoxious laughter. “I’m just saying. You think Frank’s been sitting here all alone, night after night brooding over scotch and cigarettes? Nah, he’s got his extracurriculars, Eden. Better get used to it.”
I don’t bite at Tom’s remark even though seeing the trace of lipstick on the glass causes a wave of jealousy to ripple through me. Meanwhile, Tom digs through Frank’s fridge like it holds the answers to all of life’s pressing questions.
“Well looky here. What’s all this? Leftover Chinese, beer, butter, more beer and…oh, what’s this? Brie? Fancy stuff.” Tom pulls the wheel of cheese out and takes a whiff and starts to gag. “Gross. Who eats this shit anyway? It smells like feet mixed with ass.”
“Jesus, Tom! Put that back!” I snap, snatching the cheese from Tom and putting it back in the fridge, slamming the door.
Tom smirks. “Relax. I’m just getting the lay of the land. Wouldn’t want our favorite paralegal to feel like she’s been tossed to the big bad wolf, huh?”
“Don’t you have some pills to go sell? Or perhaps another teenage girl to go pick up and drag over to The Pink Room?” I retort.
“Fine,” Tom holds his hands up. “I was only trying to be nice. You know it’s Wednesday, right? I’m sure Frank’s already over at The Pink Room. You know, the meeting he had with his client? It’s actually a lap dance and some sucky-sucky in the champagne room.”
Tom’s right. It is Wednesday and the day that Frank frequents The Pink Room. He tried to downplay it over the weekend but I know better by now. Couldn’t Frank have been decent enough to help me get settled in and show me around his house? No, he sent his errand boy Tom to do it. I’m not sure why I expected more because this is Frank Griffith we’re talking about.
“Well, anyway. Looks like my work here is done,” Tom announces, brushing his hands off dramatically. “You’re all moved in, princess. Try not to burn the place down before Frank gets home.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” I fire back.
Tom gives a mock salute, heading to the front door with all the swagger of someone who thought they’d just done me a huge favor. As the sound of his backfiring car rumbles down the driveway, it’s just me alone in Frank’s space, the place now eerily quiet without Tom’s snarky presence.
I make my way upstairs, finding a few doors. At the end of the hallway, a closed door is locked up and I assume it must be Frank’s bedroom. On the opposite end of the hallway is another door and this one’s open. Flicking the overhead light on presents a four poster queen bed, neatly made with a couple of dressers and an attached bathroom with a shower and tub combo. There’s a piece of paper on the bed and I walk over to it, finding it’s a note in Frank’s intricate handwriting.
Eden—if you found this note, this
is your private room with the your own bath. Get settled in and help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge or order delivery if you want. There’s a couple takeout menus on the side of the fridge. See you later, Frank
Looks like my first night in Frank Griffith’s house will be spent alone, trying to figure out if I’ve just traded one evil—my family and Fox Ridge, for another—Frank.
….
I went to bed on an empty stomach. I helped myself to the rest of the Merlot Frank had on his counter and popped a Percocet and an Ambien before dragging myself upstairs and tossing off my clothes and collapsing into the bed. I don’t know what time it is, but the sunlight seeps through the curtains on the window and I groan, slowly blinking my eyes.
I hear a familiar voice call out: “Morning sunshine. Sleep alright?”
I roll over, not remembering that I’d hopped into bed the night before wearing only my panties. The sheet has fallen around my waist in my sleep and I sit up, locking my sleepy eyes with the sight of Frank standing in the doorway to the bedroom, a cocky beam on his face as he looks at my bare breasts on display. He’s already dressed for the day.
I scramble to pull the sheet up to my chin and glare at him. “Ever hear of knocking?”
“The door wasn’t closed,” Frank says simply. “Besides, this is my house. I don’t need to knock.”
Go figure, this is how it’s going to be, my first morning at Frank’s house and he’s already establishing his ground rules that this is his house and he’ll do as he damn well pleases.
Frank crosses the threshold of the doorway and sits a cup of coffee down on the nightstand. “I brought your things up to your room. I guess you were too busy drinking the rest of my wine last night to get yourself unpacked.”
“I guess you were too busy over at The Pink Room,” I mutter under my breath.
Frank chuckles at me and raises one eyebrow. “Well I’m here now, aren’t I? And it is Thursday morning and you’re expected to go to work, hungover or not. It’s 6:45. You’ve got plenty of time to get ready and eat breakfast.”
I reach over for the coffee cup with one hand while my other hand clutches the sheet around me so I don’t have anymore wardrobe malfunctions in front of my new landlord. I take a sip, surprised to find Frank already knows how I like my coffee. It tastes like medium roast with cream and sugar already stirred in.
“See you downstairs,” Frank says as he turns to leave the room, his cowboy boots clicking on the wood floors.
A while later, after I’ve taken a shower and gotten dressed, I walk downstairs to find Frank sitting at the kitchen table, reading today’s edition of the Northfield Tribune while smoking a cigarette. The kitchen smells like eggs and bacon and there’s a plate waiting on the table across from where Frank sits, with a fresh cup of coffee.
I take a seat and start to eat while Frank ignores me, quietly humming as he reads the newspaper. The bacon is perfectly cooked with the right amount of crunch and the eggs are scrambled. I’m thankful for the food as it’s the first thing I’ve eaten since lunch yesterday. Even though Frank’s note said to help myself or order takeout, I opted for a meal of wine and pills.
“So,” Frank declares, sitting the newspaper down and turning his focus to me. “How was your first night’s sleep? How’s the food?”
“It’s fine,” I reply in between bites of the eggs.
“An attitude first thing in the morning, eh? You never cease to surprise me, Eden,” Frank laughs.
“What attitude? I said it was fine.”
Frank smirks at me and folds his arms across his chest. “If you’re upset about me seeing you earlier, don’t be. I happened to like the view. And if we’re gonna be living under one roof, we might as well get used to each other.”
I feel my cheeks heat up at his choice of words—that he liked the view. Of course he does, he’s a man. One who’s already getting under my skin no less.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I quip. “That was a one time thing.”
“So do you normally sleep without clothes on or did you only do that because you were hoping I’d see you?” Frank asks, his light blue eyes sparkling.
I groan and chew another piece of bacon, hoping to deflect Frank’s questions.
“Well?” He presses.
I drop my fork on my plate and glare at Frank. “Fuck! Can’t I enjoy my breakfast in peace?”
“I don’t know, can’t I enjoy my house in peace without an ungrateful houseguest?” Frank shoots back.
“Alright. I’m sorry. I’m just tired. And hungover. And maybe I’m—never mind. Thank you Frank for letting me stay here.” My delivery is insincere and Frank can tell.
“And maybe I’m what? What’s on your mind, Eden?” Frank prompts.
“Maybe I’m pissed off you weren’t here last night. Ok? You left me with Tom who was no real help. I was by myself in your house. You should’ve been here Frank.” I admit, my voice quieter now.
Frank licks his lips, his expression softening ever so slightly. “There. That’s all you had to say. You’re upset with me because I was working late. I figured after seeing me all day at work, maybe you’d want to have a quiet evening to yourself getting settled in. I didn’t think you wanted a babysitter to hold your hand.”
“Were you working late or were you just at The Pink Room since it was Wednesday?” I shoot back.
Frank’s face is flat and unreadable. “And if I was? What’s it to you? But if it bothers you Eden, I’ll make sure to spend more time with you.” He adds that last part with his signature smirk.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap, the bite in my voice weaker now.
“We’ll see sweetheart,” is all Frank says in return.
He continues to watch me eat and takes a sip of his coffee before he lights up a cigarette. It feels strangely domestic to sit with him like this, even if I’m rightfully annoyed. This whole morning isn’t going to plan but then again, I have to remind myself where I am. This isn’t the guesthouse at my uncle’s farm. This is Frank’s house and was nice enough to invite me to stay here. I don’t want this to be a permanent thing, hell no. I’ll stay here until I can figure out my situation, hoping I don’t have anymore awkward moments with Frank but something tells me this is just the beginning.
….
Later that afternoon, I’m interviewing a client with Tom. He’s a young guy who’s found himself on the wrong side of the law. Meet Mike Deal, 21 years old and fired from his night clerk job at the Mini-Mart. He’s been accused of embezzling money from his boss, a Pakistani immigrant—Syed Abed. Everyone in Northfield knows Syed and his 24/7 convenience store. It’s the only place in town to get gas and Syed’s proud of his prices, even if he does have higher than normal fuel prices along with everything else. It’s called a fair market and Syed knows he has the town of Northfield by the balls. While there’s a 7-Eleven across town, their fuel pumps are almost always out of order. Plus, it’s on the wrong end of town, not too far from where Frank and Tom’s office is.
Mike is clearly guilty. He was seen on camera pilfering two hundred and fifty dollars. Tom and I had access to the black and white CC camera footage from Syed’s store. We’d obtained a VHS copy the week before. Now we sit inside of Tom’s smoked out office, watching the evidence with Mike.
“So that’s obviously you on the tape,” Tom says after he’s pressed pause on the VCR remote. “I’m not here to judge you. Hell, I get it. All that money lying around creates temptation.”
Mike frowns and shakes his head. “I plead the fifth.”
Tom laughs and leans back in his chair, thighs spread wide and lights a cigarette up. “Hey Mikey, attorney client privilege, remember? This isn’t a court room. I don’t give a shit that’s you on the tape. Ray Charles could tell it’s you. But what I do care about is motive. What possessed you, a hardworking and faithful employee, to steal from your employer?”
Mike taps his foot, looking around like he’s afraid he’s about to be busted. I sit next to him, watching him with a legal pad and pen in my hand. Frank and Tom’s clients aren’t the most up to snuff people, not like the ones Ed Collins used to represent, the depositions I’d sit in on with him, all professional and straight to the point.
“Debt to pay off your bookie? Your car’s acting up? Maybe your girlfriend needed an abortion? Or maybe you have a sick mother who’s stricken with terminal cancer and that money helped fund some of her medical costs?” Tom muses, stroking his chin.
I see what Tom’s doing and it’s a genius move even if I won’t admit it. I fight to contain rolling my eyes and Mike nervously looks from me to Tom.
“It’s alright, Eden’s on our side. She’s one of us. So whatever you need to say, take confidence in knowing she’s part of this team too.” With that Tom shoots me a pleased grin.
“Alright. I stole the money because Syed’s a fucking dickhead and I wanted to. And it’s not the first time it’s happened, but the first time I was caught,” Mike huffs.
“Well good for you buddy but I don’t give a shit about your previous heists. We need to focus on this situation that caused you to get your walking papers. You can admit you stole the money and everyone in the courtroom will know it’s you when they watch the videotape. But we need to tell them why you stole it. You’re barely being paid minimum wage and under the table, right? We all know Syed isn’t withholding taxes on you and we all know that’s illegal. You’ve fallen on hard times. I propose we go the sick mother route.”
“My mom died when I was a kid!”
“So what? We’ll find another family member. How about your dear old dad?”
Mike shakes his head, unconvinced. “He’s been in prison for the last five years. Grand theft auto charge in New Jersey.”
“Looks like the criminal streak runs in your veins,” Tom sighs. “You’re not making this very easy for me, Mike. Unless you want to end up locked up like your dad, you need to cooperate. Go with the flow. Ok?”
“Well I’ve got a half brother, Brandon. He’s thirteen and lives with my stepmom in Metuchen. He’s a diabetic.”
“Bingo!” Tom claps his hands wildly. “Type one or type two?”
“Uh. I don’t know? What’s the difference?”
“The difference is either your little bro is a fat ass who likes to eat Twinkies and guzzle Mountain Dew by the liter or he developed childhood diabetes unexpectedly, a disease he will spend the rest of his life bravely fighting.”
Mike looks at Tom in confusion because it’s clear he doesn’t understand the picture Tom’s painting for him. The comic relief of the situation is almost enough for me to drop my professional mask and cackle laughter. I’ll give it to Tom. He’s a ticking time bomb in the flesh but he’s also creative as fuck.
“Well Mikey, we’ve already established we want a trial case. A quick plea bargain goes on your record and you’re a registered felon. Anything over two hundred dollars is a felony. You’ll probably get a few months jail time and some fines you can’t afford. A jury trial gives you the chance to sell your truth. Your estranged father left the family and your poor stepmom is left with the brunt of the bills, taking care of her sickly young boy. You’re just playing the role of the concerned big brother. You took that money to help pay for his rising insulin costs. And we bring something else to the table—the fact that Mr. Abed’s paying you illegally. It’ll all come to light. You’ll be exonerated and our carpet flying friend will be exposed as the shady creep that not only charges too much for gas, but also doesn’t pay his employees a decent wage. Case closed.”
“You really think so Tom?”
“Fuckin’-A I do. It’s open and shut. Boom! Onto the next one. We’ll meet next week to really lay down the facts. By the time you’re ready for your closeup in court, you’ll become an overnight celebrity. I can see the headlines of the Northfield Tribune now. ‘Caring Brother Acquitted of All Charges in Embezzlement Case’. The people will respect you instead of seeing the zit faced kid who worked the night shift in Syed’s shitty store. Whatcha think?”
Mike weighs the possibilities of Tom’s offer in his mind, running a hand through his limp mousy brown hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a good wash in a few weeks. “Ok. I’m in. But I’m also going broke. I need a job.”
“Well, you just swiped two hundred and fifty bones. Don’t tell me you think I’m taking this on pro bono?” Tom scoffs.
“I don’t know. I was just hoping maybe I could…you know help you out. I know you’ve got some side jobs doing deliveries.”
Tom raises an eyebrow and shoots me a quick glance. “Eden, I think we’re all done here. Mike will check in with you on the way out. Get him on my schedule next week so we can continue this conversation.”
It’s my cue to exit the office as I only imagine what shady offer Tom’s about to present this broken young man with. I thank Mike for his “time”—if you can even call it that and leave Tom’s office, closing the door behind me. I settle back into the front office, tossing my legal pad on my desk as I only imagine what tales Tom is weaving now. After a while of staring at my computer screen, the thud of Frank’s boots echoes through the office and I look up to see him standing in front of my desk, his wool coat on and his briefcase in his hand.
“Well, how’d your meeting go with Tom and his client?”
“Oh, it went beautifully,” I deadpan. “I can only imagine what illegal activities they’re discussing now.”
Frank lets out a lung rattling laugh and fingers his expensive looking tie. “I’m cutting out early today. I’ve got some things to take care of at home. You coming home right after work?”
“I planned on it.”
“Good. I’ll have dinner ready and waiting for you. Don’t be late.” With that Frank gives me a placid smile and puckers his lips at me before he strides out of the office.
….
Over a dinner of New York strips, lobster tails, and loaded baked potatoes, Frank raises his wine glass to me.
“To my new houseguest and this delicious meal I’ve been slaving over. May she enjoy her new life away from her prick uncle’s family dynasty and may this meal nourish her body and soul. Amen.”
I chortle laughter, tipping my glass of Riesling against his. I’m not sure if Frank’s just made a toast or said a prayer. “I didn’t realize you were a man who counted his blessings.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t realize about me, Eden. But you’ll find them out. Underneath it all, I’m just a soul whose intentions are good. Please don’t let me be misunderstood.”
I laugh again, realizing Frank’s quoting the song “Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood ” by The Animals.
“You’re something else Frank. I didn’t know you cooked.”
“Heh heh,” Frank laughs. “Of course I didn’t cook this. The Brass Bell slaved over this delicious meal. And I’ll have you know, it wasn’t cheap. One hundred thirty five bucks to be exact. They don’t do takeout for any Joe off the street you know? I called in a favor.”
I playfully roll my eyes and cut into the steak, chewing it as it’s cooked a perfect medium rare. There’s a crust on the outside of the steak with seasoning and I can see why this meal costs what it did. Frank wrangles some buttery tasting lobster meat out of the tail and plops it in his mouth, chewing with a closed mouth grin.
“Don’t get used to it,” Frank says after a beat. “Not every night is going to be wine and candlelight. Unless, of course, that’s what you want. Then I’ll be happy to indulge you on occasion.”
I spear a piece of potato with my fork, leveling with him. “What’s the catch Frank?”
“No catch,” Frank proclaims smoothly.
“If you want to buy a few groceries here and there, knock yourself out. But I’m not expecting you to pay me rent. Just keep your room clean. Or else I might have to discipline you.”
There’s a flicker of something dark in his tone and I meet his gaze, the flames from the tapered candlesticks between us dancing off of his pale blue eyes.
“Discipline? Sounds interesting. I’m curious what that involves.”
Frank’s grin widens and for a moment I feel like I’ve just stepped into a trap. “Oh I think you know. You’re a smart gal or else your old sugar daddy in the city would’ve have hired you. So how long was it after you went to work for ‘ol Eddie Collins when he showed you his trouser snake?”
Of course Frank would bring up my old boss and the affair. The one I didn’t tell him about but he obviously gathered enough to know was true. It’s the last thing I want to talk about with him, considering how the two men look so much alike. Not only that, it’s deeply personal and I try not to let Ed occupy too much time in my mind these days.
“Really, Frank? That’s none of your damn business.”
“I think it is. I’ve only opened up my home to you, after all. I’ve got a right to know who I’m dealing with. I’m not judging you, I’m just curious. I’ve waxed a few young secretary asses in my time too, you know. But I wasn’t some family man like Ed’s pretended to be.”
“Yeah, speaking of family,” I counter. “Where’s yours Frank? I don’t see any photos of anyone other than you.”
“Well,” Frank takes a sip of wine and clears his throat. “My dad died of lung cancer years ago. He worked the graveyard shift in a steel mill back in Buffalo. My mom croaked from Alzheimer’s disease back in 1980. And my two older brothers, Charlie and Jimmy? They’re long gone. One contracted bacterial meningitis. Immediate death sentence. The other one got blown up by the gooks in Vietnam. It’s just me left. Why live in the past? I don’t need photos of them lying around, taking up space and collecting dust. I’ve got all the memories of my family up here,” Frank says as he taps his temple.
“You’ve really got a way with words.”
“And you’ve got a way for getting into trouble, sweetheart,” Frank retorts. “You didn’t answer my question about Ed.”
I sigh, setting my fork down on the plate. “Ok, fine. I was fucking my boss. You happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” Franks says with a hint of sarcasm. “I just wonder what you saw in him. From what I’ve heard, he’s a pretentious asshole.”
“I don’t know, maybe he was good to me. At first. He made me feel special for a few years,” I reluctantly admit. “But then his wife found out and he couldn’t have that. So he forced me to resign.”
“So he developed a conscious after he’d been plugging you? Sounds like a real stand-up guy.”
I glare at him but he doesn’t flinch. “Well, you know something Frank? You kinda look like him.”
“Really? No one’s said that before,” He lies through his mostly straight teeth. “I happen to think I’m more handsome than Ed Collins and I’ve got way more experience than some stuffy Ivy League educated asshole with a law degree. I went to the school of hard knocks while Eddie was on the rowing team at Yale.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about Ed.”
“I’ve been in the trenches long enough to know exactly what kind of man Ed is,” Frank’s voice drops dangerously low. “And trust me when I say this sweetheart, he’s not half the man I am.”
“You’re arrogant as fuck, Frank,” I laugh.
Frank bats his eyelashes and mock giggles like a kid. His pale eyes flicker with amusement. “Back when Ed was still a junior attorney, he worked for the main D.A.—a fast talking Jewish guy by the name of Mel Cohen. You ever heard of him?”
I take a long sip of my wine. “No, I can’t say I have. Ed was the district attorney long before I showed up in his office.”
Frank smirks, swirling the wine in his glass as if the conversation amused him more than it should. “Yeah, well Cohen was a Buffalo boy just like me. Went to the same high school as me but was a little older than me. He went off to the city after he’d graduated from Princeton. Ed was one of his most trusted junior lawyers, his protege really. But Cohen started to get jealous of Ed hogging his precious limelight and his young talent, so they had a falling out. Then one day, Mel Cohen kicks the bucket during squash practice. Drops dead on the spot. 49 years old, the picture of perfect health. I always suspected Ed was involved because he wanted Mel’s job.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Oh come on. I highly doubt Ed would kill a man.”
Frank laughs, his grin growing more wicked by the second. “You’d be surprised what lengths a man is capable of when ambition eats at them like a disease. Your precious ex-boyfriend Eddie is no exception.”
I want to tell him to shut it down, that I don’t need to hear Frank’s hot take but I can tell he’s not finished.
Frank spears another piece of lobster with his fork. “Speaking of Ed,” Frank begins. “I’ve got a few friends in the city too. You know that junior attorney on Ed’s team, I think her name’s Connie DiMarco? Rumor on the street is Ed’s been plugging her too.”
“Bullshit, Connie’s not even his type,” I laugh at the absurdity of Frank’s claim, recalling the fiery dark haired Connie, half Italian and incredibly opinionated. She had some meat on her bones but she wore it as well as she could. I know for a fact Ed wouldn’t have looked twice at her, not like he did with me.
Frank raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “He’s a man with isn’t he? And last I checked, men with dicks don’t always stick with a type. As long as she’s willing, that’s all it takes. I hate to break it to you, but it sounds like your friend Ed has a problem with keeping his dick in his pants. I’m not so sure his wife found out about your little affair either. As a matter of fact, my source in New York told me Ed was seeing both you and Connie at the same time. I guess he had to choose which pussycat he liked the best. The one with the big ass, or the one who had a predilection for pills. Hmmm.” Frank taps his index finger against his chin thoughtfully.
The words hit me like a slap. “Fuck you, Frank!” I spit, my voice shaking with fury.
Frank doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even blink. He just leans forward in his chair with that smug and infuriating grin. “Oh relax, sweetheart. I’m just being honest with you, something you could use more of in your life. You think Ed was some kind of prince? He used you, honey. Just like your uncle Jerrod used you to hustle his overpriced Christmas trees and that son of his—the one he should’ve spat out into a Kleenex instead of into his wife’s aching womb. The way that drunk little creep talked to you night after night at his mommy and daddy’s dinner table like you were some banal person who didn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as him. Fuck ‘em all. You’ve got a knack for letting toxic men walk all over you.”
I push back from the table and stand up, but Frank’s voice stops me cold.
“Sit down,” he growls. “You need to hear this. I might be an asshole, but I don’t lie. You need a man in your life who’s going to tell you the truth, even when it hurts. And if that makes me out to be the bad guy? So be it.”
I stand my ground, glaring down at Frank, my pulse hammering in my ears. “You think I need you? You think I’m just going to sit here and let you drag me through the mud like I’m some pathetic charity case? You’re wrong!”
Frank shakes his head. “I don’t think anything, sweetheart. I know. And deep down, so do you. But don’t worry. You’ll come around. They always do.”
I stare down at him, the heat of my anger boiling beneath my skin. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a response quite yet. I just sit back down and eat some more of my dinner and Frank lights up a cigarette, puffing on it in between eating the rest of his meal.
After a while, Frank speaks up to cut through the stillness. “You’re quiet, Eden. I figured you would’ve had more to say after that little revelation.”
My fingers grip the stem of my wine glass like a lifeline, but I don’t take a sip. My pulse is still thrumming with rage and I absolutely despise how Frank’s gotten under my skin. But I also can’t deny there’s something about his bluntness—his absolute refusal to sugar coat anything—that feels real.
I push my plate away and lean forward on the table, marching Frank’s unflinching scrutiny. “You really don’t give a damn how much you come off as a vicious jerk, do you?”
Frank shrugs, cutting another bite of his steak and slowly chews it before he responds. “Why should I? I’ve spent enough time around phonies and liars to know the truth cuts deeper than any bullshit ever will. Might as well get straight to the point.”
I laugh bitterly. “You think you’re some paragon of honesty? Please. You’re as calculated as they come, Frank.”
He lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest like distant thunder. “You’re damn right I’m calculated. That’s how I’ve stayed steps ahead of the rest of these idiots. But here’s the difference between me and Ed Collins, your uncle or any of the other clowns you’ve dealt with. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. What you see is what you get.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. “And what, I’m supposed to applaud you for being an unapologetic asshole?”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” Frank laughs and takes a long pull of his wine.
I shake my head, exhaling a sharp laugh. Frank’s insufferable, arrogant and somehow still magnetic in a way that I can’t quite wrap my head around. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me from across the table—not with pity or condescension, but like he sees right through me. Like he knows every bad decision, every regret and every scar I’ve carried with me and he doesn’t care.
“I hate how you think you know everything,” I exhale quietly.
Frank smirks and dabs his mouth with a paper towel. “Not everything darlin’. Just enough to know you’re too smart to keep letting assholes like Ed or your uncle drag you down. You’re smarter than that. You deserve better, Eden. You just don’t realize it yet.”
His words hit somewhere deep, an uncomfortable mix of flattery and challenge that make my stomach twist. I want to brush him off, to remind him he’s no choir boy, but instead, I stay quiet, turning his words over in my mind.
“You’re something else, Frank,” I finally say, my voice softer than I intended.
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his peepers locking with mine. “And so are you, sweetheart. You just don’t know it yet. But stick around—I’ll make sure you figure it out.”
I scoff in annoyance, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me. Frank Griffith is conniving, infuriating, arrogant, and completely remorseless. But damn if he doesn’t intrigue me all the same.
Chapter 11: Takin’ Care of Business
Summary:
Eden starts to see Frank in a new light. Tom goes on a mission trip.
Notes:
Just a bit of smut in this chapter and more coming up in future chapters!
Chapter Text
Living in Frank’s house has been a cocktail of curiosity, annoyance and fascination shaken up and poured into a highball glass. The days that followed our first dinner together—the one where he’d been an unconscionable bastard, telling me what he thought I needed to hear and not what I wanted to hear—have been anything but dull. During the day at Griffith and Wolfe he’s his usual self: hot tempered, cunning and ruthless. Barking out orders as he yells down the hallway. But behind the closed cardinal red door of his house on Requiem Drive, he’s shown me the kind of man he really is.
Frank’s no cook and we often eat dinner together, a frozen Red Barron pizza here, grilled cheese sandwiches and cans of Campbell’s tomato soup there. Sometimes he’ll stop and get takeout, Chinese or Greek or we’ll even share a greasy bucket of the Colonel’s original recipe in his kitchen. Frank’s told me more about his childhood and his family. How he always felt like he had to go the extra mile as the youngest of three boys so he’d be noticed by his parents who were too busy working their own jobs. He also told me a little about both of his marriages that ended in divorce.
“I was heartbroken when my second wife left me for another man,” Frank confessed as we shared a bottle of wine on the couch one night not too long ago. He was so convincing it was hard to believe it was a lie.
“I was out there busting my ass after having been made partner back in Buffalo by Dick Rhodes and Marshall Bell. All while taking care of my sick mom while this whore was taking trips back to Canada get some action from some old boyfriend on the side!” He boomed.
“What happened Frank?” I asked, caught up in his narrative.
Frank’s mouth shifted into a sly smile and his blue eyes nearly twinkled. “I served her with the goddamn divorcee papers, that’s what happened. And she got a one way bus ticket back to Canada. See ya.”
At least he’d been honest about that part.
I felt like I’d found a kindred spirit in Frank, a man who’d been through it all, just like I had. It was during that quiet moment of raw honesty that I realized I was feeling things for Frank that I didn’t think were possible. I was attracted to him and it wasn’t just because he looked like an older version of Ed, but it was because he was who he was and owned it. Frank’s intense nature had become such a turn on, I often found myself lying awake at night, imagining what it would be like to be on the receiving end of all of that intensity.
The man could fuck. I knew it and I wanted it. God, did I want it. But I also knew Frank liked to be in control and I certainly wasn’t going to beg for it. No. Hell no. I deserved to have a man crawling on his hands and knees to me for once in my life. No more sneaking around in hotels or my old apartment like I did with Ed. No, I deserved a man who wanted me and would do what he could to get it.
And tonight, I’m gonna make sure I get what I want. I’d seen the way Frank was looking at me over our Taco Bell dinner earlier. I told him I’d bring dinner home. I don’t think he was real keen on Chalupa Supremes or Nachos Bell Grande, but he didn’t complain. It wasn’t just the packets of fire sauce Frank had doused his food in to make it more palatable that caused his face to heat up—no it was the fact that I came to the dinner table in a skimpy cotton tank top like I often wore to bed, sans bra. I’d seen Frank’s eyes laser focused on my breasts more than once. My nipples stayed hard through most of the dinner because I’d deliberately run my hand across my chest and also because of my overactive mind imagining all of the things Frank could be doing to me.
After dinner, he told me the Taco Bell didn’t sit right with him and he was turning in early for the night. I knew that was a lie. I’m sure he went upstairs to jerk off in the shower. And now that’s what I’m doing, lying in bed, my bedroom door cracked open just enough to make what I’m doing to myself more audible if Frank were to be curious.
Brushing my hand against my pussy, my fingers dipping between my lips, slipping two fingers in and out of me while I thump my thumb against my clit. I’d already came a short while before, but my sounds of wetness and reckless abandon fill the air. I’m also vocal too. Breathless and moaning. Moaning Frank’s name.
I periodically pause to make out if I can hear him lingering out in the hallway. But I don’t and I’m about to reach orgasm number two, that is if my hand doesn’t cramp up first. A short while later, my hand inevitably cramps up and I lose the desire to continue. Fuck.
I toss the sheets back and climb out of bed, quietly padding out of my room. The upstairs is dark and quiet. But I can see the faint glow of the television radiating from downstairs. I trek downstairs, one slow step at a time, a birds eye view of the living room and just what’s playing on the television at this late night hour. The unmistakable sounds of the Cinemax channel fill the air—overacted moans, whispers and now the telltale image of two bodies moving in sync with an erotic sounding jazz instrumental accompanying it all.
Frank’s clearly not shy, watching a skin flick past midnight on the cable channel but this is his house and I’m just a mere houseguest. I realize I’ve found an even bigger camaraderie with him now. He can’t see me, not yet. But boy can I see him, sitting on the couch in nothing more than a pair of boxers, his thighs spread wide as his hand slides lazily against himself. Unhurried and unapologetic, like this is just another evening in his domain.
The scene on the screen plays out with a dark haired muscle man working a tan and hardbodied blonde over a pool table. Because it’s just soft core, the only nudity that’s shown is the man’s bare ass and the woman’s obviously fake tits. Frank exhales a plum of cigarette smoke as he watches the screen, his hand wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping. Of course he’d be smoking in the middle of rubbing one out—he’s Frank fucking Griffith.
I take another couple of steps until I reach the landing at the bottom, crouching down so he can’t see me. The blue glow flickers off of his face and he continues stroking himself, a low hum coming out of his mouth as he exhales another drag of his cigarette. He rests his hand after a few moments and flicks the cigarette of his smoking hand into the ashtray on the coffee table. He stops his movements but he still sits there on the couch, laid back with his cock still erect. The channel cuts to a late night infomercial.
Even from where I stand, I can see the length of it. Beyond impressive, but I never doubted a man like Frank would have a small pee-pee. No. You don’t get the kind of confidence he has with a little gherkin tucked between your legs. That’s a full on hybrid pickle we’re talking about. The kind that puts Mt. Olive, Vlasic and Claussen to shame.
“Enjoying the show sweetheart?” Frank’s voice calls out. He’s caught me but he doesn’t turn his head in my direction. Just keeps looking straight ahead at the TV.
I know damn well I didn’t make a noise and didn’t do anything to draw attention to my voyeuristic pursuits. Goddamnit. I guess it’s Frank’s intuition.
He shifts his head in my direction and I can see him smirking.
“Didn’t peg you for a peeping Tom,” Frank laughs lowly.
“I’m not,” I announce as I creep out of the shadows, trying to appear less rattled than I am. “I came downstairs because I was thirsty.”
Frank laughs again. “Sure you did. Must’ve worked up a thirst up there, humping your pillow and all.”
I freeze in my tracks and Frank locks eyes with me, not bothering to cover himself up. Of course he doesn’t. He wants me to see him like this.
“I was not humping my pillow!” I half lie to him. I was humping my hand. Slight difference.
“Well don’t just stand there, honey. Come on in, sit down. Act two’s about to start up soon,” with that Frank thumps the couch.
Any other woman would be mortified and would probably cause a ruckus before fleeing upstairs to hide under the covers. But I’m not most women. The fact that Frank and I were both trying to get our rocks off at the same time feels like evidence of our karmic connection. Birds of a feather and all.
As much as I don’t want him to have the upper hand in this moment and to submit to him, I find myself walking into the living room anyway, trying hard not to look down at Frank’s crotch as I pass by him and sit on the other end of the couch.
“I figured,” Frank pauses and grabs his cigarettes and Zippo off the coffee table, shaking one out of the pack to lie it up. “Since you were upstairs being not so subtle, why should I? And for the record, I’m glad you’re making yourself at home here. Even if it means flicking your bean and moaning my name loud enough for me to hear.”
My cheeks heat up. Of course I wanted Frank to hear me, I just didn’t want him to actually call me out on it. It was one thing to fantasize about him in the hallway, silently listening in on me giving myself some self-love, but it’s a whole other thing to know that he knew about it and didn’t care.
“So you’re eavesdropping on me now?” I retort.
“Can’t call it eavesdropping when you leave your door open, now can you Eden?” Frank inquisitions me with his signature smirk.
“Yeah, like how you’re sitting down here pulling on your pudding in your living room of all places at 12:45 in the morning,” I react in annoyance.
“Touché,” Frank laughs. “But go on, humor me darlin’. Show me just what I was missing upstairs.”
I’ve never seen Frank like this, without a shirt on and his slowly shrinking cock hanging out of the slit in his boxers. His body is fleshy, a chest dusted with light colored hair from just below the notch in his sternum all the way down to his belly button. His stomach has a bit of a paunch to it, meaty thighs and manly, hairy legs. A body that hints at a life well lived; plenty of meals, booze and everything else he’s done in excess over the years. He’s not some 55 year old guy who obsesses over his body but fuck, looking at him like this gets me even hotter. Frank is a real man, through and through.
I hate how in control of Frank is in this very moment. I’m the one who’s supposed to have the upper hand, not him. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been wanting this for a while and finally admitting it. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m insanely horny and need to have everything that’s happened over the last couple of months fucked out of me.
I sit up on the couch, kneeling as I slowly pull my sleep shorts down, wearing a pair of white cotton panties. Frank sucks his bottom lip and nods his head at me to continue. I hook my thumbs in the waistband and shrug my panties down too until they sit stretched over my knees along with the shorts. Now Frank can see me in all my feminine glory—the kept patch of light brown hair down there, well groomed because that’s how Ed always liked it.
If he’s turned on, Frank doesn’t show it. No, he’s not going to lay all his cards out on the table. Not his style.
“A bush,” he finally says after a few tense moments, breaking the silence that had become sharp enough to cut glass. “Been a while since I’ve seen one of those.”
I scoff in offense. “Bush? I don’t have a fucking bush! I keep myself groomed!”
“Calm down. Don’t get your clit into a twist, Eden,” Frank drawls before taking a puff of his cigarette. “Personally, I happen to like a bit of hair down there. Most women these days want to shave it off like they’re a little girl. I like knowing I’m with a woman and not a child.”
“Like all the strippers with bald snatches over at The Pink Room that you ogle every Wednesday?” I fire back.
“You seem to be real concerned about The Pink Room lately. Wanna get dressed and ride over there? Maybe watch me get a lap dance? Might give you some new material for your fantasies,” Frank says teasingly.
If I thought Frank would be all over me like white on rice, kneeling beside him on the couch with my femininity hanging out, I thought wrong. I should’ve realized this is a game I’m playing with the master of games. Frank has the rule book after all and I’m just an inexperienced participant. I could be desperate, throw myself on him, grinding myself on his lap until he gives me what I want but it’s clear that won’t be happening.
I pull my shorts and panties back up, feeling like a fool as I shrink back against the couch cushions. Jack LaLanne’s juicer infomercial rattles in the background as Frank looks at me with an unreadable expression, puffing away on his cigarette until it’s nothing left but a filter with smoldering ash.
“You’re awfully quiet for someone who’s just shown me what she’s got going on downstairs,” Frank declares to break the silence between us.
“Whatever,” I sulk.
Frank chuckles, shaking his head. “Pouting, huh? Who would’ve guessed?”
“I am not pouting,” I correct him.
“Oh, well what else do you call it? You’re sitting there like a toddler who didn’t get her way. If you want to impress me Eden, you’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that,” his words are like spun sugar wrapped in harsh whiskey.
I slap the back of the couch with my palm, eyes wide. “What, do you think I’m going to just get on my knees and beg you? Get real Frank.”
Frank laughs, low and smug. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who would want it so easily. If I wanted an easy lay, I’d ride over to Metuchen and see Lula.”
“Who in the hell is Lula?” I inquire.
“Oh, just an old friend of mine. Nobody for you to be concerned about.”
“You’re such a dickhead,” I mumble. “Are you telling me that you don’t want to fuck me right now?”
“And you’re not as slick as you think you are sweetheart,” Frank laughs. “Of course I want to fuck you. I’m a man aren’t I? But you have to ask yourself if you’re ready for me. Because I’m telling you right now, whatever men you’ve shared a bed with in the past won’t hold a candle to me. I’m not sure if that’s a ride you want to go on. You’re a little fragile these days.”
“Wow,” I say sarcastically. “You really seem to have a high opinion of yourself. You think you’re any different than any other swinging dick?”
“I don’t think,” Frank says and stands up, pulling his boxers up so that Frank Jr. is fully concealed now. “I know. I think it’s time for me to get some shut eye. You’re welcome to stay down here and continue the party though.”
I look up at him as he looms over me, the smug grin on his face enough to make me want to scream and claw his eyes out. He says nothing further, just walks out of the living room and heads back upstairs, leaving me alone in the living room feeling like an idiot.
….
The next morning, Tom has me on a phone call with Mike Deal, the kid who’d swiped money from the Mini-Mart. I’m coaching him on all the fine points of his “sick” little brother’s story, the child warrior who’s bravely fighting his type two diabetes.
“I asked my stepmom, Brandon’s got type two. He’s always been a bit chubby. The kids pick on him at school. I beat one of them up for it a couple of years ago, broke his skateboard over his head,” Mike says casually.
Nice. Let’s add assault of a child to Mike’s track record.
“Well, the jury doesn’t need to know all of that. Your little brother won’t even be called into question. Tom will paint the picture about your dad not being around, your stepmom’s a single mom struggling to make ends meet and that’s where you come in, the underpaid and overworked convenience store employee. You took the money to help pay for Brandon’s insulin,” I assure him.
I’m amazed at even my convincing delivery. I guess that’s what happens when you spend a lot of time around Tom Wolfe, learning just how to spin a tale in your favor.
Tom should be here too, but no, he’s in Frank’s office with the door closed. They’d gotten into a heated argument a short while ago and Frank suggested they have a conversation “in private”.
Just down the hallway, that conversation is taking place. Tom’s laid back on Frank’s couch, a cigarette in his hand as he listens to Frank with rapt attention. Frank, poised behind his desk like the king that he is, wearing another crisp, high dollar suit, steepling his fingers as he begins weaving the fabric of yet another fascinating chapter in the storybook of his life.
“Comes into the kitchen wearing this racy little tank top with no bra. Sat across from me all goo-goo eyed the whole time I’m trying to digest that mystery meat from Taco Bell,” Frank muses. “Like she thought she was doing me a favor. And then the real kicker? Later, she’s supposed to be sleeping but instead she’s rolling around in the bed, whispering my name as she fingers herself.”
Tom laughs obnoxiously. “And, you’re saying you didn’t fuck her? Christ, Frank. I at least thought that would’ve happened by now. I mean if it was me, I would have—“
“I’m not done,” Frank cuts him off. “I go downstairs later, fire up a skin flick. It’s my castle, you know? A man needs to feel comfortable in his own castle. So I was watching this movie, just doing my thing. And next thing I know, she tries to creep downstairs like she’s some burglar in the night. I heard her before she’d even reached the landing. I’m sitting there on the couch, my dick in my hand while she watches me like it’s a fucking Oscar winning performance! You could’ve bought her when I asked her if she was enjoying the show!”
“Ha! That’s a riot. What else happened?”
Tom questions.
Frank leans back in his chair and lights a Marlboro, taking a few puffs before he continues story time. “Well, I told her to come on in and sit down. She just sits there on the couch as she takes the sight of me in. Tommy, she was practically foaming at the mouth. I even got her to drop her drawers and show me her twat. She doesn’t even realize the mind control I have over her.”
Tom wheezes, slapping his knee “So, how was it? Does she have one of those platinum pussies or some used and abused box?”
Frank chuckles, flashing Tom one of his predatory grins. “It was dark in the living room since the only light was coming from the tube. But from what I could see, yeah. Double platinum pussy, pal. Real tight looking and with this nice little bit of hair. I have to admit, if I was desperate, I would’ve taken her right then and there, no questions asked. But I’m not. You could tell she was pissed too that I didn’t come onto her. Like she thought I would’ve been all over her.”
“That’s not like you Frank,” Tom snorts. “You should’ve at least gotten a blow job out of it.”
Frank grins. “Tempting, but no. Sure, Eden’s sexy and believe me, I’ve been stroking my meat to her and her only lately. But it’s about exercising self-control. I want our first time to be…more intimate. I was thinking how incredibly gratifying it would be to make love to her at Fox Ridge. After the rest of her family’s snuffed out that is. Imagine me taking her, the night of the funeral in Jerrod’s bed. How’s that for his precious family legacy?”
Tom howls laughter, his face turning even more red and drops his cigarette on Frank’s couch. He scrambles to pick it up before it’ll burn a hole through the cushions, tossing it into the ashtray on Frank’s desk. Tears are coming out of the corner of his glassy eyes and he’s holding his belly from laughing so hard.
When he finally calms himself down, he clears his throat to speak. “That’s disgusting Frank, but good stuff. I like it. When are we planning on taking care of that business by the way?”
Frank stubs out his own cigarette, his expression hardening. “There’s a legal symposium coming up out in Vegas in a couple of weeks. And I’ve already got two tickets to ride.”
Tom air pumps one fist after learning about a possible trip to Sin City. “Awesome, so we’ll take care of it before or after the Vegas trip?”
“Who said anything about you going, Wolfe? No, I’m taking Eden with me. It’ll be the perfect chance to get her away from here and to establish the perfect alibi too. I figure I’ll take her to Vegas, we’ll dress the whole thing up like it’s a networking event when really it’s just an excuse to gamble, drink, and take in the sights.”
Tom sits up, fuming. “You’re taking Eden? What the fuck Frank? And what am I supposed to do? Man the fort while you two pal around the desert?”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do Tommy. And you’re also going to make sure the Tyler family goes off into the great beyond. I’m trusting you not to fuck this up,” Frank declares.
Tom’s jaw tightens and it’s clear the party’s over. “You mean to tell me you’re dumping this cluster fuck in my lap? No Frank! Absolutely not! I’m not doing this by myself!”
“You won’t. Do you really think I could trust you not to fuck up such a delicate situation? Come on Tommy, you think I was born yesterday? No, my boy Gordy’s coming in from Buffalo. He’s the one I trust to take care of it. You’ll be there to assist in whatever way he sees fit.”
Tom stands up and starts kicking at the floor with his grungy looking wingtips. “Great! Just great! Once again, I’m the one who gets tasked with the unthinkable!”
Frank slaps his hand on his desk and it echoes through the room like a sharp crack. “Quit the whining, Tom. After all, it was your idea, wasn’t it?”
“No! You’re the one who said you wanted to kill them! Not me!” Tom hisses, throwing his hands up angrily.
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have opened your big fat mouth,” Frank says sharply. He doesn’t need to yell and throw a hissy fit like Tom to get his point across. “But you’re the genius who came up with the creative solution of how to kill them, Tommy. You think brainstorming is your only contribution to this deal? No. You’ve gotta walk the walk to back up the talk. You take care of doing this, and there’s a good payout for you. More than you make with the little drug business you have on the side.”
Tom scowls but doesn’t argue any further. He knows Frank’s word is final. As always.
“Before you go,” Frank calls after Tom once he reaches for the doorknob. “I need you to do something for me this Saturday. Get yourself cleaned up, maybe even head out to Hecht’s at the Metuchen Mall and get some presentable looking threads. Take a trip out to Fox Ridge and pop by the tasting room. But go before they close at five, later in the afternoon. I need to know how many people are at that place on a Saturday evening. Hang around for a while if you want but don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, Tommy.”
“You want me to go to Fox Ridge and pretend like I’m some tourist schmuck who likes wine? No thanks,” Tom huffs.
“Just be natural,” Frank convinces him. “Be your usual self, Tommy. You clean up too much, or start using big words if Jerrod is around? Well he might suspect something is amiss. I’d do it myself but I’ve burned enough bridges with the Tylers. For this lifetime at least,” Frank chuckles.
“Sounds like another pointless idea,” Tom mumbles.
“For fuck’s sake,” Frank groans and reaches for his wallet in his pants pocket, pulling out two one hundred dollar bills. “Here’s some money to get some decent looking clothes, maybe even a bottle of wine from those pricks. Keep the change and take a hike.”
Tom grumbles under his breath but takes the money from Frank anyway and leaves the office without another word.
….
By the time Saturday rolls around, Tom’s morphed into a new version of himself. He took Frank’s advice and got a new outfit. Decked out in a butter yellow V-neck sweater, cream colored slacks he took the time to press, and knockoff white Gucci horse bit loafers, he looks like an improved version of himself. He also looks like an overgrown lemon and he knows it. Tom took a shower, shaved the stubble and splashed on some aftershave.
“Not bad,” he smirked as he took a look at his reflection in the dusty mirror in his bedroom.
Tom busts down the gravel road towards the tasting room at Fox Ridge, the radio in his Caddy crackling Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Takin’ Care of Business ”. He’s not too pleased with this little task Frank had sent him on, but he also doesn’t mind doing a little thespian work every now and then. He also doesn’t mind talking to himself either. Or in his case, the spirit of old Maude “Ma” Anderson, his former client turned geriatric lover, the one who brought him out to Northfield all those years ago.
“Ya know Ma, I really miss you. I also miss your money. I pissed through it all years ago, but you probably already knew that. You told me before you died to make sure I continued to live my life to the fullest and by God, if that’s not what I’ve been doing, I don’t want to know. Sure, I’ve loved other women since you departed this cruel world, but none compare to you sweet Ma. If you’re up there listening, I hope you’re proud of me. And I hope you’ll keep watching over me. I haven’t exactly done much good with my life, but I’ve lived, haven’t I?” Tom broods out loud as if Ma herself is in the passenger seat of the Cadillac she’d once given him.
“And Frank Griffith? Shit, Ma. I know you told me he was a snake, but we’ve been doing a lot of important work here in Northfield. I found my niche. You might even like him, if you’d given him a chance. And there’s this girl too, Ma. No, I haven’t taken a liking to her if that’s what you’re wondering. Not in that way at least. Eden’s interesting. Sometimes she’s fun, even if she’s a bitch sometimes. She’s also a good customer, even if I take advantage of her wallet. But Frank’s got his claws in her and before long, I guess he’ll have his dick in her too. I guess what I’m trying to say is…I’m gonna be putting something really big together soon. I just hope when the time comes, you’ll watch over me.”
With that, Frank peels into the cobblestone parking area in front of the tasting room, flicking off his radio and backs the Cadillac up into a parking space, narrowly missing the front bumper of a British racing green Jag.
“Whoops,” Tom says casually with a shrug once he’s gotten out of the Cadillac and seen just how close he’d parked next to the Jaguar. “Hope you’re skinny enough to fit in there pal.”
“Time for some fun,” Tom cackles, rubbing his hands together.
It’s 4:15pm on the dot. He imagines the parking lot was busier earlier in the day, but forty five minutes before closing? Nah, there’s only a few cars left in the lot. Of course, Patrick Tyler’s vintage Mercedes convertible is parked crookedly off to the side, probably because Patrick was tanked when he drove down here earlier in the day and didn’t bother to properly park it.
Tom takes a look at it, the white paint dusted with dirt from the farm, its tan convertible top starting to crack from age. Paddy Boy certainly hasn’t taken care of the car that Daddy bought him. The first car he was handed after high school graduation (a brand new Chevy Camaro) was totaled halfway through his stint at Brown University. But Mommy Martha came through that time, passing her Saab coupe to Patrick so she could upgrade to a new model. The Saab was the car Patrick would later drunkenly run into the back of Dina Carrington’s Ford Astrostar van while she was stopped at a traffic light on Main Street with her two kids in the backseat on a warm summer day in 1987.
After that, Patrick temporarily sobered up and coughed up his own dough and got himself a used Porsche 911. Patrick had the need for speed and on that rare occasion, he was completely sober when he’d swerved to miss a deer and ran off the road, sending the little speed racer into a tree less than two miles from home. Patrick was genuinely crushed when the Porsche ended up in the junkyard in Metuchen so he cried to Jerrod.
Jerrod had sworn after the Camaro and the Saab what he wouldn’t bail Patrick out again, but his son had a knack for wearing people down.
“Please dad. It’s a 1976 Mercedes, low mileage. I don’t ask you for much, just this one thing!” Patrick begged.
“So what happens when you end up crashing this one too? You think I’m gonna cut you another check?” Jerrod chuffed but less than an hour later, he and Patrick were at the Mercedes Benz dealer in Northfield, taking a look at the pristine ride parked on the showroom floor. White paint, tan leather interior and only 30,000 miles on the odometer.
Of course Jerrod wrote a check for that car too, telling Patrick it would be his early 30th birthday present. And surprisingly, Patrick’s kept it on the road several years later, looking worse for the wear, the Benz taking front and center stage with only one drunk driving incident under her hood.
Tom smirks as he looks at Patrick’s New York State vanity license plate: WINE4ME.
“Way to advertise not only the vineyard, but that you’re the town’s most infamous drunk. Smart chap, I’ll give you that Pat,” Tom laughs.
He looks at his reflection in the tasting room door’s glass, slightly warbled but still a man who’s decided to dress the part, even if he does look like he belongs in a disco in New Jersey, circa 1977.
Tom pushes the door open to step inside. It’s dim and cool, with rows of wine bottle lining the walls and polished oak counters where guests can sit in front of, sipping samples. Behind the counter stands the next heir apparent to the Tyler family fortune, Patrick. He leans against the bar, not bothering to care he’s nursing a glass of wine in plain sight of the customers he’s supposed to be waiting on. His cheeks are chronically flushed red, his dark brown hair swept back in that Kennedy-esque way.
“Well, if it isn’t the brat himself,” Tom announces, throwing his arms wide. “How’s Northfield’s favorite fortunate son doing? Keeping the dream alive, I see.”
Patrick glares at Tom, swirling his line lazily. “Tom Wolfe. What do you want?”
“Oh, just wanted to stop by and try a few samples of the grapes, that’s all,” Tom chuckles, leaning against the counter and taking up space like it owes him rent.
Patrick scowls and downs the rest of the Cabernet Sauvignon that it’s in his glass. While Tom Wolfe isn’t exactly as diabolical and as hated as Frank Griffith, he’s not real pleased to see him. While Patrick and his family don’t have the same relationship with Tom that they have with Frank, Patrick still knows enough to know when something is amiss—intoxicated state or not.
“What’s the matter? Your evil henchman boss Frank is too busy to drop by, so he sends you out here instead?” Patrick snorts.
“I’ll have you know Frankie ain’t my boss Pat Baby. I don’t answer to him. I play by my own rules,” Tom corrects him. “I just figured I’d take a rare Saturday off and venture out into this part of the world. As far as what Franks’s doing, who knows? He’s probably banging your cousin Eden right now but I could be wrong.”
Patrick narrows his eyes but doesn’t bite. “Fine. What do you want to taste?”
“Hmmm,” Tom muses. “I don’t know. What do you suggest? I mean you’re the one who spends your whole day drinking this shit up, right? What’s your favorite flavor? Or does an a wino like you not care?”
“You’re a real funny guy, Tom. I guess Frank’s rubbed off on you more than you admit,” Patrick grumbles and pours a glass out for Tom, passing it to him.
Tom takes a sip of it, exaggeratedly smacking his lips. “Mmmm. Notes of…grapes I presume. You guys are really onto something here Paddy.”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “Ah, grapes. Ding ding! We have a winner! Imagine that, Tom gets an answer correct for once in his sad life.”
Never one to miss an opportunity to get in another rib, Tom laughs, pointing his finger at Patrick, shaking his head like Patrick’s so clever.
“You know I saw that Benz of yours out front. Nice wheels. Too bad you’ll probably crash it between here and the little drive up to your mom and dad’s big house. Nice license plate too. WINE4ME. It suits you Patrick, it really does. If anyone had any doubts about you being a lush before, they certainly won’t when they read the tags.”
Patrick pours himself another glass of wine, ignoring Tom’s roast.
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, Wolfe. On any other given day you look like you’re coming off a three day bender yourself.”
“So what? I’ve got Irish blood on my maternal grandmother’s side. It’s in my veins. What’s your excuse? Mommy and Daddy gave you too many toys and not enough love? So you drown your sorrows in the bottle, right? But I think it’s the fact that you’re just a rich little prick who thinks he’s completely untouchable,” Tom shoots back.
Patrick doesn’t have a comeback because deep down, he knows Tom is right. Kids like Patrick, the ones who are born with silver spoons in their mouth, pop out of the womb with entitlement coursing through their veins. Years later, they’ll term this sort of behavior “affluenza”—a disease that apparently only affects the 10 percent, gives them an excuse for their privilege for when they drive drunk and kill multiple people or rape a girl on a college campus.
“Anyway,” Tom changes the subject. “Busy day? I’m sure Saturdays are a real circus around here.”
Patrick shrugs. “Busier in the morning and through lunch. The crowd’s gone now. Why do you ask? You suddenly think you have what it takes to run a vineyard?”
Tom grins, one hand on the wine glass, the other on his hip. “Well, if you can run this place in your constant state of inebriation, I’m sure I could come in here like Donald Trump. It obviously doesn’t take much.”
Patrick ignores Tom, pouring a sample of wine out for another guest who’s just walked up to the counter while Tom takes another sip of the wine, his eyes scanning the room.
Tom hasn’t failed to remember the real purpose of this trip, a stakeout for Frank. He’s been making mental notes, one server working tables where the few lingering guests guzzle wine and nibble on cheese plates. Patrick standing at the counter like he’d rather be drowning himself in a barrel of grapes out back. Tom knows some of the staff that works at Fox Ridge lives in the guest house. But he also knows that once the vineyard closes on Saturday evening, those few employees get out of town for the weekend, meaning there shouldn’t be anyone around late on a Saturday evening except for the four Tyler family members.
“Well, thanks for the wine. I was thinking about buying a bottle for the road, but I’m more of a scotch man myself. Take care of yourself,” Tom says, slapping the counter and pushes the wine glass towards Patrick.
Patrick doesn’t bother to respond or tell him goodbye, so Tom flashes him a wink before he saunters out of the tasting room.
“And by take care, I mean l hope you pack light for your trip to hell you snobby cunt,” Tom whispers to himself.
Chapter 12: Viva Las Vegas
Summary:
Frank and Eden take an impromptu trip while Tom is pissed about having to stay back in Northfield.
Chapter Text
Wednesday, March 20th, 1996
“So, how’s living with the big, bad boss treating you?” Tom Wolfe asks me this morning over the questionable looking Big Bite hot dog he’s inhaling from 7-Eleven.
Today’s the day Mike Deal’s case goes to trial, the guy who’d been shit canned from the Mini-Mart. I’m sitting with Tom inside of his Cadillac because he insisted we take this clunker to court together this morning. Court’s at 9am, and Tom’s on his best behavior this morning, or at least he appears to be.
“Do you always eat hot dogs for breakfast?” I ask Tom, ignoring the question about Frank and I’s “living arrangements.”
Tom wipes mustard off of his tie with the kind of precision that makes you wonder how he hasn’t been disbarred yet. “Every time I’ve got a case. Good luck charm. Big Bite, Camel Light, win the fight. It’s a foolproof system, Eden. Don’t knock it.” With that, Tom lights up a cigarette.
“Interesting,” I mumble, smoothing my pantsuit down, hoping I won’t look have any stains, debris or dust on it after sitting inside of Tom’s raggedy ride.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Tom presses.
I sigh. “Living with Frank is fine, Tom. Why do you care?”
Tom flicks his cigarette into the built in ashtray in the Cadillac’s dashboard and pulls the sun visor down to check his reflection. “I dunno. It’s not everyday Frank Griffith lets a skank shack up with him.”
“Skank? Since when do I fit the bill of a skank?” I huff.
“Ok, poor choice of words. No Eden, you’re not a skank. You’re a skirt. And it’s not everyday Frank Griffith lets a skirt shack up with him. I wonder what it is about you that makes you different from all the others that have come before you,” Tom laments.
I find myself curious about these other women that Tom’s referring to so I ask him to elaborate.
“I know you’re not stupid, alright? Frank’s a man who has needs, you know? Hell we’ve all got ‘em. Some of us more than others. Frank’s got his whole harem of women on speed dial. He’s got Lula over in Metuchen, a hag who used to strip at The Pink Room. And then there’s Bonnie Bishop, happens to be the ex-wife of some IBM executive who took him to the cleaners in the divorce. Frank has to wine and dine Bonnie at The Brass Bell because she’s a bit of a high roller. You’re a bit younger than what he usually goes for. Oh wait…I forgot, Madison O’Leary. She’s like 25 I think? Frank’s been paying for her tuition at Metuchen Community College for the past four years. I highly doubt she’s getting her associates degree. I just think she’s taking advantage of Frank’s wallet. But apparently she gives good head, and lets him fuck her in the ass, so maybe he doesn’t give a shit what she does with the money,” Tom declares casually like he’s talking about the weather and not the fact that Frank just might be a man whore.
I can’t help the scowl that forms on my face as he rattles off a couple more women’s names. I cut him off, holding up my hand. “Ok Tom, I’ve heard enough.”
Tom rolls his eyes at me. “Well you asked who the others were, so I told you Eden. Don’t get upset with me for answering your question. I’m just saying, if you’re…you know, planning on banging the boss, at least make him wear a Trojan or something.” Tom pauses to mutter under his breath, “A full STD panel probably wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Fuck you, Tom,” I spit, my face already burning in annoyance.
“Hey, I’m only trying to help. Think of me as your personal guardian angel,” Tom says, tossing his cigarette out the cracked window. “Now let’s get inside. I’ve got a jury to bullshit and you’ve got a front row seat to watch me work my magic.”
Great. Grand. Stupendous! I can’t wait.
The courtroom inside of the Northfield District Court smells sterile, like a box of Band-Aids. Syed Abed sits at the plaintiff’s table, looking like he wants to throttle someone. Meanwhile, Mike sits at our table, decked out in his secondhand Goodwill suit, his oily hair slicked back from his forehead.
Tom strolls in like he owns the place, exuding the kind of confidence that only comes from years of hustling people who should’ve known better. He gives Syed a smarmy nod as we pass by the plaintiff’s table, then slaps Mike on the back like he’s a drinking buddy.
“Don’t worry kid,” Tom leans down to say to Mike but loud enough for Syed to hear. “We’re gonna take this scumbag to the cleaners. Mmmkay?”
Syed shoots Tom a glare and says something unintelligible—probably in his native Pakistani tongue. Tom just shrugs his shoulders and I quietly groan as I take my seat at the defense table on the other side of Mike. Today’s just one of many times when I wonder just how the hell I’ve gotten mixed up with working for Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys At Law.
The trial kicks off and Tom’s in rare form. He paints Mike not as a thief, but as a down-on-his-luck hero, a poor young man forced to make an impossible choice to save his little brother.
“He’s not a criminal,” Tom says convincingly to the jury. “He’s a human being just like all of you. And sometimes, good people make mistakes when they’re desperate.”
I glance at the jury, half of them who are nodding at Tom like he’s the second coming of Clarence Darrow. Never mind that Mike’s “desperation” probably amounted to a pair of new Nike Air Jordans and a pack of Budweiser, maybe a few lottery tickets too.
Syed takes the stand, trying to explain his side of things but Tom eviscerates him on cross examination.
“So, Mr. Abed,” Tom drawls, pacing in front of the jury with his hands on his hips. “You claim that my client stole two hundred and fifty dollars from your register. Tell me this, were you paying him a fair wage? Or were you just cutting corners to pad your own pockets?”
Syed sputters, his accent thickening in frustration. “I pay what the market demands! He agreed to the job!”
Tom raises an eyebrow in mock shock. “So you’re saying you were exploiting him, then? Taking advantage of a young man who wanted to provide for his sick little brother? Sounds pretty heartless, doesn’t it?”
Syed slaps his hand down and shakes an angry fist, causing old Judge Myers to bang his gavel on the counter. This is when I realize Tom’s going to win this case.
By the time the closing arguments roll around, Tom’s practically got the jury eating out of his grubby hands. “Mike Deal isn’t a thief,” Tom declares. “He’s a victim of circumstance. A good kid who made a bad choice, fueled only to do what’s right by his family. Ask yourselves if finding him guilty would sit right with your conscience. Ask yourselves if you would’ve done the same thing for a blood relative.”
The entire jury looks like a bunch of bobble heads with the way they’re nodding at Tom in agreement. It doesn’t take long in the deliberation room for them to all agree Mike is not guilty. When the verdict is read, Mike’s stepmom practically throws herself over the railing at Tom, crying like she’s going to be nominated for a razz award.
Tom winks at me over her head as he consoles her, patting her shoulder. I can’t help but smirk, shaking my head as I’ve just had a front row seat to the mad genius of Tom’s crazed brain.
When it’s all over with, Tom and I follow Mike and his stepmom outside. She’s digging in her purse for a pack of Virginia Slims while Mike’s loosening up his cheap looking tie.
“Well,” Tom rubs his fingers together. “About the rest of your retainer Mike.”
Mike stares at the ground like a kid who’s been caught shoplifting, afraid to make the contact with the man who’s just saved his ass. Meanwhile, his stepmom pulls out her wallet, passing Tom a check. “Mr. Wolfe, this is half of what he owes. I was hoping you and I could…work something out for the rest?”
Tom grins and pulls a business card out of his suit jacket pocket. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. Call me tomorrow at the office, sweetheart.” Tom winks and the redheaded stepmom giggles like a schoolgirl before sauntering off with her wayward stepson in tow behind her.
“Jesus Tom, I’m afraid to ask what kind of arrangement that’s supposed to be,” I mutter as we walk over to the Cadillac.
“Same arrangement you have with Frankie boy,” Tom says with a wide grin. “You’re not exactly Mother Teresa yourself, you know? Walking around in a chemically induced daze when you’re not getting kicked out of your snobby uncle’s place. But speaking of pills, you need a refill on your Perc or the Xanax? Maybe the Adderall?”
I ignore him and hop into the passenger seat of his car before we’re rumbling back across town to the office. Once inside the office, Frank is seated at my desk like he owns it—because, well, he does. He wears a sly smile on his face, his fingers steepled like he’s some kind of mob boss.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. How’d it go Tommy?” Frank asks.
“Another W for the books,” Tom says, spreading his arms above his head like a champion. “Mikey Deal’s a free man. Jury ate it up. I didn’t have to bring up Syed the Snake paying him under the table either. Good stuff.”
“That’s good Tom, real good,” Frank congratulates him although it doesn’t sound sincere. His focus is on me though, his crisp eyes burning right through me.
Tom claps his hands together. “Well lovebirds, if you’ll excuse me, I have some rather pressing matters to attend to behind closed doors.”
With that, Tom strides back to his office. Frank and I both know what those pressing matters must be—probably involving a fifth of liquor, a few lines of coke or maybe digging a syringe, lighter and spoon out of his desk for the harder stuff. Either way, we’re both alone, the only noise in the office coming from the faint ticking of the wall clock that’s about five minutes behind.
Frank passes me an envelope, tapping his fingers against me. “Get packed.”
I take a look at the envelope, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. “And why is that?”
Frank leans back in my chair, folding his arms across his chest, that shit eating grin flashing as wide as ever now. “Vegas, baby. We’re leaving tomorrow morning. First class out of JFK.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Legal symposium,” Frank says, lighting a cigarette like he’s a character in an old noir film. “I booked us a suite at the MGM Grand. Why don’t you go on home and get packed? Bring some nice clothes, maybe some of those racy little pencil skirts you seem to wear so well.”
I inspect the contents of the envelope and sure enough there’s a first class round trip ticket for me on American Airlines. “Well you could’ve given me some more notice.”
“And miss the look of surprise on your face?” Frank smirks, standing up and smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket. “I wouldn’t dream of it darlin’.”
This feels like some kind of catch because nothing Frank does comes without strings attached. Yet I would be lying if I hadn’t already been thinking about getting away with Frank, going somewhere that didn’t involve another trip to The Pink Room. The trip to Las Vegas adds a whole element of surprise to a man who’s done nothing but surprise me since I first met him.
“There’s no strings attached,” Frank says calmly, almost as if he’s been reading my mind. “Think of it as a reward. You’ve been doing good work around here. Hell, you made it through your first courtroom showdown with Tom. That counts for something doesn’t it? Besides, we’ll go check out Vegas when we’re not networking at the legal conferences. I promise it’ll be one hell of a trip Eden.”
I give him a wry smile. “Oh I can imagine it wouldn’t be anything but that with you. Alright. Let me get my things.”
“Good girl. See you later this evening,” Frank bids me farewell for the day.
A while later, once I’ve arrived at Frank’s house, I go through my closet to get my things packed for a few days in Sin City. Just the name alone sounds like it would be Frank Griffith’s personal playground. Folding my clothes into neat stacks in my suitcase, I imagine the kind of madness Frank has in store for me.
Meanwhile across town, a different kind of madness is taking place at Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys at Law. Tom leans back in his cracked leather chair and lights a joint, taking a long drag. The air reeks of weed and stale booze.
Frank’s sitting across from him, his suit still immaculate despite the grimy surroundings of the landfill Tom calls his office. He watches Tom with a faint look of disgust, his icy blue eyes narrowing as Tom takes another long drag of his chronic.
“So, you’re really taking her to Vegas aren’t you?” Tom asks, tapping the joint’s ash into the tray on his desk.
“Yes Tommy, I’m taking Eden. And maybe if you take care of this for me, I’ll be able to take you to Vegas one day too. On Jerrod’s dime of course,” Frank laughs.
This is no laughing matter for Tom. For once, he’s serious. Contemplative even. Maybe it’s the cannabis taking over his brain for the time being. “So let me get this straight. We get rid of Jerrod and the rest of those arrogant fucks, and Eden miraculously inherits the estate? And then what? You think that gives you the keys to the kingdom? You planning on moving into Fox Ridge and helping Eden run that shit hole even more into the ground?”
Frank scoffs. “You think Eden will want to live there, at the scene of a tragedy? Hell no, Wolfe! Trust me, she’ll want to get rid of that place ASAP. Like I told you before, I’ll be acting as her legal counsel. I’ll make sure she sells and you and I get our cut. And if she doesn’t…well.”
Tom’s gaze sharpens. “Well what, Frank? You gonna find a way to stage her death too?”
Frank shrugs his shoulders, completely indifferent. “I’ll do what I need to do, Tom. Don’t worry about that for now. What you need to worry about is doing what I’m counting on you to do on Saturday night. Gordy will be here Friday. I told him to stop by the office to see you once he gets into town.”
Tom grimaces, running a hand through his hair. “Great. I can’t wait to see that weird little shit again. Why do I always have to be the one to clean up your messes anyway? Why can’t you stay here and babysit his weird ass?”
Frank smiles, but his icy eyes remain cold as always. “Because I’m the boss, that’s why. And because you’ve got the delicate touch of a goddamn sledgehammer, Tom. Gordy’s gonna handle the hard part, the exit strategy. You just do whatever he asks you to do. And when I get back from Vegas, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get paid handsomely. Somewhat, at least.” Frank laughs his trademark cold hearted cackle after that.
“Handsomely,” Tom repeats, mockingly twirling his finger in the air. “Great. That’ll pay for the therapy I’ll need after all of this bullshit and dealing with your Buffalo butt buddy. That guy gives me the fucking creeps. He’s like—“
“I don’t give a shit what you think about Gordy,” Frank interrupts. “You’ll do whatever he asks you to do. Keep your head down and keep it clean. I don’t want any loose ends tying us back to those fucks. When it’s done, page me a code word. Something innocuous.”
Tom rolls his eyes and takes another puff of his joint, passing it in Frank’s direction but Frank just shakes his head. “And how am I supposed to do that? Call you up and say ’Hey Frankie, it’s Tom. Just calling to let you know we killed Eden’s family for you. By the way, how’s Vegas treating you?’”
Frank smirks. “Just page me Tom. Come up with a code word. Something that wouldn’t cause any red flags to go off. Something.”
“How about ‘Mr. Clean’? How’s that sound?”
“Fine. Mr. Clean it is. You page me that and I’ll know it’s handled but that’s it. Nothing else. But don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency. I don’t want to hear a goddamn word until Eden and I are back on Sunday. Got it?” Frank demands.
“Yeah, yeah,” Tom grumbles. “Whatever you say boss man.”
Frank leans forward, his tone sharp. “Do not fuck this up Tom. Carbon monoxide just like we discussed. Gordy knows the drill. Follow his lead.”
Tom scowls but nods. “Fine, I got it. You think I’m gonna carve my name into the crime scene or something? I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re not. But you keep smoking that shit,” Frank gestures towards Tom’s joint. “And that cocaine and God knows whatever else you’re shoving into your system and it’ll fry what’s left of your brain. I need you sober for this, Tommy. No distractions. I already told Gordy to keep an eye on you. Don’t disappoint me. We’ve got a lot riding on this. Got it?”
“Whatever,” Tom sulks. “I heard you the first time.”
Frank rises from his seat and makes his way to the doorway and stops, turning to look at Tom. “Maybe get this place cleaned up while we’re gone. It’s starting to look like a crime scene in here.”
Tom flips Frank a middle finger once he’s walked out of his office.
….
Thursday, March 21st, 1996
Our flight has barely hit cruising altitude when Frank leans over in his seat, that sly grin of his settling in like it has no intention of leaving. “So, what’s it like flying first class with me? Everything you dreamed it’d be?”
I glance at him over the rim of my complimentary mimosa, trying hard not to roll my eyes. “First class is nice, sure. Flying with you though? Jury’s still out.”
Frank chuckles low, a sound that somehow manages to be both magnetic and condescending. “Oh come on now, sweetheart. I saw that little smile you had when you found out where we went going. Admit it, you’re excited.”
“Excited for the symposium,” I reply, swirling the mimosa in my glass like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Networking, professional development. Sounds…riveting, Frank.”
“Bullshit,” Frank says, leaning back like a king in his seat, one arm stretched along the divider between us. “You’re already picturing yourself lounging by the pool, a drink in hand and soaking up that dry, desert sun. Or maybe playing the slots and pulling that lever, hoping for a jackpot.” Frank turns his head to look at me, his light blue eyes as sharp as ever. “You do strike me as a woman who likes to take risks.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, definitely,” Frank answers, the corner of his mother quirking into that damning smirk. “I mean, you moved in with me, didn’t you? That’s one hell of a gamble.”
I try not to smile but I can feel it tugging at the corners of my lips. “Well a gamble implies I’m expecting some sort of payoff.”
“You don’t think there’s a payoff?” Frank questions mend tilting his head slightly, his voice dipping into that lower register he seems to reserve for moments like this—moments where he’s reading me like a book and daring me to challenge him.
“I think time will tell. Though I’d say you’re the one rolling the dice here, Frank. Letting me into your world and into your house? That’s a pretty big move for someone who doesn’t trust anyone,” I respond.
Frank chuckles again and it’s so warm I can almost feel it wrapping around me like a hug. “Maybe I trust you more than you think, Eden.”
I meet Frank’s gaze and for a moment, our back and forth banter falls away. There’s something in his eyes, something dangerous but also intoxicating. Like he’s daring me to dive in, to see how deep his waters really go.
“You’re probably the most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” I say but my voice lacks any real bite.
Frank cackles so loud it draws the attention of a stuffy looking older woman across the aisle who gives him a disapproving glance.
“You’ll get over it, darlin’. Hell, you might even like it.”
I don’t answer him, but the truth is, Frank’s not wrong. And he knows it.
Somewhere over the snow caps of the Rockies, with the plane humming softly around us, I decide to stop biting my tongue. Frank’s on his third Bloody Mary and leaning back in his seat as he flips through a glossy airline magazine that’s in the back of the seat in front of us. I can’t help but stare at him and he must feel my eyes on him. His eyes flick in my direction and he gives me a smirk.
“Can I ask you something?” I begin, my tone deceptively casual.
“Since when do you ask permission?” Frank counters, closing the magazine and giving me his full attention.
“Tom mentioned something to me yesterday. About…well, your so-called ‘harem of women’.”
Frank’s smile grows wider but there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes—amusement or maybe mild irritation. “Tom Wolfe,” he drawls. “The man’s a walking gossip column when he’s not busy getting stoned or drunk. Don’t tell me you actually believe the vomit that comes out of his mouth, do you?”
“I don’t know Frank, you tell me. You’ve got that broad named Lula who lives in Metuchen. Some woman named Bonnie and apparently a college student, Madison. You’re her benefactor and according to Tom, quite the fan of her extracurricular talents.”
Frank offers a cynical snort. “Tom didn’t hold back, did he?”
“Nope,” I say, leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms. “So, how much of it is true?”
Frank regards me for a moment, his expression unreadable and then he sighs in annoyance like he’s been asked this same question time and time again. “Look, I’m not going to sit here and deny that I’ve had my fair share of distractions. I’m a man, aren’t I? I’m not married and who I chose to spend my time with is my business and no one else’s. As for those women? They’ve all served their purposes at one time or another. I guess Tom’s spun it like I’m running some kind of brothel out of my Rolodex, didn’t he?”
I don’t answer him and take a sip of the vodka soda I’m drinking, staring at the puffy white clouds out the plane’s window. I feel Frank’s fingers on my arm and I turn to look at him.
“Eden, why would I want hamburger when I’ve got filet mignon waiting for me at home?” There’s a hint of mischief gleaming in his eyes.
I feel the flush creeping up my neck before I can stop it, but I keep my expression neutral, even as his words register in my mind. He’s not exactly subtle and Frank Griffith isn’t the type to leave anything open for interpretation.
“You’ve already seen my ‘filet’, huh?” I shoot back, the heat now burning through my cheeks.
Frank chuckles, unbothered by my sarcasm. “Don’t play coy with me. I’ve already seen your pretty pussy darlin’,” Frank proclaims, the words slipping out so casually and so unashamed it takes me a second to process what he’s just said.
The reaction across the aisle is instantaneous. The same stuffy looking granny shoots Frank a look so sharp it could slice through steel. Her lips purse into a thin line and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat like she’s just been sodomized.
Frank turns to her with his signature devil-may-care grin and simply shrugs. “Sorry ma’am. Just a private conversation.”
The woman huffs and turns back toward her book, muttering something under her breath. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to suppress a main but also half mortified.
“Jesus, Frank. Are you trying to get us kicked off the plane?”
“What, you think they’re gonna toss us off somewhere over Colorado, honey? Granny over there is just upright. Probably needs a dick in her snatch or something,” Frank says smugly. “But I’m serious, Eden. I meant what I said. You’re filet mignon. And I’m going to spend this weekend proving it to you. Or if you want, we can join the mile-high club right now?”
“You can’t be serious.”
Frank shrugs his shoulders. “Oh, I’m dead serious. You and me, right now. The bathroom’s just up there. Private enough, don’t you think? I paid good money for these first class seats. I ought to be able to get my money’s worth.”
I stare at him, half expecting him to laugh and say he’s only joking but I know Frank well enough by now to know he doesn’t joke. He’s watching me closely and clearly enjoying my reaction.
“You’ve lost your damn mind,” I mumble.
“Maybe,” he admits, his eyes locking on mine. “But you can’t tell me you’re not tempted. Hell, I’ve seen the way you’ve been squirming in your seat since we took off.”
“Squirming?” I repeat, shooting him a scowl. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”
“Doesn’t sound like a no to me,” Frank says, his grin completely sinister now.
I wonder just what he means by that. It annoys me. It flusters me. And maybe it thrills me too.
….
Frank reaches over and squeezes my hand as we stand on the balcony of the rooftop bar at the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino.
“Las Vegas,” Frank proclaims, his eyes sparkling from all the nearby neon lighting bouncing off of us. “What a trip.”
We’d arrived in Vegas earlier in the day, checked into our hotel and attended the opening session of the legal symposium at a nearby conference center. After mingling during the cocktail hour, which amounted to me watching Frank work the room, linking up with a few lawyers he must’ve known along the way, he took me to dinner at the iconic Peppermill Restaurant.
Over overflowing tropical cocktails and greasy food, Frank charmed me the way he’d been doing all along, effortlessly and without pretense. I found myself happy and smiling the entire time as Frank told me stories of days long gone, trips to Vegas he took in his younger years. Sure, he’d annoyed me on the plane but there’s something about being here in a city that never sleeps with him that makes him dare I say…alluring?
Once we got back to the hotel, we hit the casino floor, both of us chain smoking as we wandered from the slot machines to the craps and blackjack tables. Frank played the table games with the kind of confidence only he could pull off. I stood behind him, watching as Frank flirted with the female dealer and ordered us drinks without breaking his stride. By the end of the night, he’d doubled his buy-in, pressed a small stack of chips in my hand and told me to go crazy.
Now, on the balcony as I stand next to him in this sinful city full of chaos and reckless abandon—I feel a strange mix of exhilaration and unease. Frank lights another cigarette, the Zippo sparking in the night
“Sometime tomorrow, I’ll take you to The Venetian for a gondola ride. It’ll be like going to Italy without ever leaving the great state of Nevada,” he grins.
I chuckle, pulling his cigarette out of his fingers and taking a drag of it. “I thought gondola rides only happened in Italy?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me through the haze of smoke curling between us, a flicker of intrigue lighting up his face. “Vegas is close enough,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, the words brushing against my ear like silk.
It’s impossible not to smile back. Frank has this way of making the world feel like a movie—bigger, brighter, and just dangerous enough to keep you on edge. His hand slips from mine, his touch lingering as he moves behind me, one arm circling my waist, pulling me gently against him. The cool metal of the balcony railing presses into my thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body.
I feel his fingers graze my hair, tucking it behind my ear before trailing down the curve of my neck. “You were on fire tonight,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin. “Five hundred dollars at the roulette table on your first spin. I’m impressed.”
“Didn’t think you impressed easily, Griffith,” I reply, my voice steady, though my pulse quickens. I don’t turn around, don’t break the moment. Instead, I let the city lights spread out before us while I sink into the feeling of his arm anchoring me, his hand tangling softly in my hair.
“You’re full of surprises,” Frank says, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, a weight beneath the words I can’t quite place.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing lazily over the thin fabric of my dress at my waist.
The city throbs below, neon lights flickering and casting strange shadows over our little corner of the world. For a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people alive even though the other people at this rooftop bar are too caught up in their own Sin City buzz to be worried about us.
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?” I ask, a sly edge creeping into my voice.
Frank laughs softly, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “That’s the rule, isn’t it?”
He turns me to face him, his hand still warm on the small of my back. There’s a gleam in his light blue eyes, a mix of amusement and something darker, more intent. “But rules are meant to be broken,” he declares, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek.
I hold his gaze, my breath hitching in the back of my throat. Frank always has a way of making the air around him feel charged, like a storm about to break. He takes the cigarette from me and puffs on it before flicking it over the railing into the night.
“And what happens when we get back to New York?” I ask, my voice softer now, almost unsure.
Frank’s smile shifts, turning slow and deliberate. He leans in close, his lips a breath away from mine. “Let’s worry about that when we get there.”
Before I can respond, he kisses me—lightly at first, testing, before pressing harder, his hand moving up my back to cradle the nape of my neck. The city melts away, the noise, the lights, everything except for him and the heat of his mouth on mine. Frank kisses me like he owns me and I don’t just like it, I love it. Never mind the other men that have come before him, not Ed Collins or any of the other jerks. Now it’s just Frank.
When we finally break apart, the world feels unsteady beneath my feet, like I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t quite name.
“You’re trouble,” I whisper, my voice shaky but teasing.
Frank smirks, his fingers brushing along my jaw. “Always,” he says, pulling me closer. “But you like it.”
And damn it, he’s right.
….
On Friday morning across the country, back in Northfield, Tom strides into Faye’s Diner, looking for Frank’s Buffalo pitbull, Gordon “Gordy” Waller. Tom’s met Gordy a few times over the years but he’s not very fond of the dark haired, small statured guy. He spies Gordy in a booth towards the back near the restrooms, a Buffalo Bills cap pulled down over his head.
“Schmuck,” Tom laughs under his breath. “This is Giants country buddy.”
With a swagger in his step, Tom makes his way down the aged linoleum floors and taps the table with his knuckles before he plops down into the spot across from Gordy.
“Gordy. Look at you, finally made it to the big leagues. How’s it going?” Tom says as he leans back in the booth like he owns the place.
Gordy looks up from the book he’s reading Mechanical Engineering For Dummies, giving Tom a tight smile.
“Fine,” Gordy replies flatly. “You ready for tomorrow night?”
Tom glances at the book, then back to Gordy. “Sure, I’m ready. As ready as a heart attack. Whatcha reading Gordo? You planning on fixing the old furnace at Fox Ridge or is this just some light reading?
Gordy frowns. “Frank told me to brush up on the mechanics of it, that’s all.”
“Frank says a lot of things,” Tom replies, waving his hand dismissively. “Most of it’s bullshit.”
“Right. I’m sure you’re real familiar with bullshit,” Gordy snaps back.
Tom grins, undeterred. “So, how was the scenic route from Buffalo? Did you stop to take in the breathtaking rest stops on I-90? Maybe visit a pickle park or two?”
Gordy slaps the book closed and it thumps against the table. “I don’t have time or patience for your bullshit. Frank told me all about you. He also told me if you get out of line that I have the authority to handle you.”
Tom raises his hands in mock surrender, his tone sardonic, a smirk on his face. “Oooh, I’m scared Gordo. Real scared. I promise I’ll be a good boy from here on out.”
“Good,” Gordy mumbles and takes a sip of his coffee. “So does Frank have any last minute changes to the plan, or did he just send you here to waste my time?”
Tom’s smirk disappears. “Relax, my friend. If there were any changes, I’d already know about them. Unlike you, I don’t need a manual to figure out what’s going on. You sure you’ve got a handle on this or am I gonna need to hold your hand tomorrow night?”
Gordy’s fingers tighten around his coffee mug, but he keeps his tone even. “You’re awfully confident for a guy who’s one fuck-up away from getting disbarred. Maybe worry less about me and more about keeping your own house in order.”
Tom chuckles, low and mockingly. “Touché, Gordo. You’ve got a little bite in you after all. Guess we’ll see how sharp your teeth are after tomorrow night.”
Gordy shakes head in annoyance and grabs the book before he slides out of the booth. “Tomorrow night? Just stay outta my fuckin’ way. That’s all you’ve gotta do.”
As Gordy heads for the door, Tom watches him with a crooked smile. “We’ll see about that, numb nuts.”
….
Frank and I are sharing a double suite at the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. The sprawling suite overlooks the strip with two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a common area where there’s a television, couches, mini fridge, bar and just about everything else you could imagine. I can only imagine how much this suite is costing Frank but Frank never lets on about the cost of anything. As a matter of fact, since we’ve landed in Vegas yesterday, Frank’s paid for everything.
I’ve just gotten a shower and gotten dressed for the day, wearing one of my business casual outfits. When I emerge from my bedroom into the common area, I’m surprised to see Frank wearing jeans and a light blue polo shirt, and chestnut leather cowboy boots on his feet. I nearly do a double take when I see him. His hair is slicked back and the shade of blue in his shirt really brings out his eyes. Frank’s sitting on one of the couches by the big windows, reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” I say as I sit down on the opposite end of the couch.
Frank closes the newspaper shut and tosses it off to the side, his eyes giving me the once over. “Dressed up aren’t you?”
I look down at my outfit. “What’s wrong with this? I want to look presentable for the conference today.”
“Conference?” Frank echoes like it’s a foreign word. “No conference today, sweetheart. We’re blowing that boring shit. Go put on something else. I told you last night, I’m taking you to the Venetian. Gondola rides, gelato, and gambling. What more could you want?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, I know but I figured you would at least want to attend some of the morning sessions before we head out?”
“Fuck no I don’t,” Frank laughs. “And you don’t either. Trust me honey, I didn’t bring you out here so we could listen to some boring fuck drone on and on about ethics and morals. Today’s the day for some real fun. Now go put on something real cute. I’m sure you’ve got a hot little number or two in your suitcase.”
Frank’s right. I didn’t really want to attend any boring sessions or conferences at the legal symposium. So I go back into my room and change into a sundress with a cardigan over top of it.
Frank’s grin widens when I walk back into the common area. “Much better. You ready darlin’?” He extends his arm out to me and I take it, giving him a small nod.
We walk out of the hotel room just like that, me hanging off of Frank’s arm like I’m some prized possession. I steal glances at him as we walk through the maze of hallways until we reach the elevators. Frank moves with the utmost confidence, like he’s done this a thousand times before. By the time we reach the strip, the sun is high and warm in the sky, a little desert breeze in the air. It’s a perfect sunny day in Vegas and not a cloud in the sky.
The ride to the Venetian is quick, though in Vegas, time feels slippery, like it bends and twist to suit the chaos of the city. We arrive mid-morning and I can’t help but marvel at the sight of the place—the opulent, palatial entrance with its towering columns and intricate facades meant to evoke Italy. Frank holds the door for me as we stepped inside, and I feel like we’d been transported straight to Venice. Marble floors gleam under the high, frescoed ceilings. The scent of fresh pastries and espresso lingers in the air, mingling with the faint smell of money and perfume.
“Impressed yet, darlin’?” Frank asks, his voice smooth as butter as he gestures toward the canals visible just beyond the grand staircase. His arm brushes against mine, deliberate but casual, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks.
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “It’s… decent,” I tease, glancing up at him with a smirk.
Frank grins, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re a tough crowd to please, Eden. But give me some time—I’ll win you over.”
We take the escalator up to the indoor canal, where gondolas glide lazily along the water, their passengers leaning back with cocktails in hand. The gondoliers sing in Italian, their voices echoing beneath a painted sky that’s so convincing, it almost easy to forget we are actually inside.
Frank turns to me, offering his hand. “Come on, let’s take that gondola ride. You ever been serenaded before?”
I stare at his outstretched hand for a moment, debating whether I want to lean into this little fantasy. But the sparkle in his eyes is too infectious, and before I can second guess myself, I slide my hand into his. “I guess there’s a first time for everything,” I say, letting him lead me toward the gondolas.
He slips the gondolier a few bills, more than necessary, judging by the man’s expression. Frank doesn’t flinch, just helps me into the gondola before settling in beside me. As the boat pushes off, I glance at him, his arm draped casually along the edge of the seat, his expression that of relaxation but also calculating. Everything about Frank feels like it’s on purpose—every look, every gesture, every word. Frank may be playing like he’s enjoying himself but deep down, I know those gears in his mind are always cranking.
The gondolier launches into a soft, crooning melody, and I can’t help but snicker under my breath. “This is so fuckin’ cheesy,” I whisper, leaning closer to Frank.
His grin widens. “Cheesy? This is classic, honey. A little romance never killed anybody. I’m sure your old pal Eddie Collins never took you on a gondola ride. Hell, I bet he never took you out of the state.”
I scoff at him, but Frank’s right. Other than a few stays at bed and breakfast joints outside of New York City, Ed had never done anything like this for me.
The water laps gently against the sides of the gondola as we float under stone bridges and past storefronts designed to look like Venetian boutiques. I lean back, letting myself relax into the moment.
Frank’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “So. You ever think about taking off, Eden? Leaving Northfield behind for good?”
The question catches me off guard, and I turn to look at him. His expression is unreadable, his eyes fixed on the painted sky above us. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Sometimes. But leaving doesn’t magically make everything better. I know I’ve pissed my uncle off but I feel like I’m putting some roots down back home.”
He nods slowly, his gaze drifting back to me, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. “Well you’ve certainly made quite the impression on me. I’d say you’re the best damn paralegal Tom and I ever had. And not to mention, a pretty good looking house guest too.”
“Oh yeah? Coming from the two attorneys who said they weren’t sure that they even needed a paralegal? Interesting,” I say teasingly.
Frank laughs. “Well, you’ve helped turn the practice around. For once, it’s nice to come into the office and see something else than Tom drinking and getting high.”
Then he slips his hand in mine, those crisp and pale blue eyes of his burning hot. He hasn’t kissed me since last night when we shared our first kiss on the balcony of the rooftop bar. I look down at his hand, the way his manly fingers are interlaced through mine so casually. It feels so natural and organic to be like this with Frank Griffith of all people.
As the gondola docks and we step back onto solid ground, I realize that, for once, I’m not worried about what comes next. Frank has that effect on people—his confidence, his charm. It’s magnetic, even when you know better. And maybe, just for today, I’d let myself get swept up in it.
Chapter 13: Slow Death
Summary:
Tom and Gordy get the ball rolling. The next day, Eden and Frank return from their trip to Las Vegas.
Chapter Text
Saturday, March 23rd, 1996
Tom and Gordy sit inside of Tom’s gas guzzling Cadillac, the tank on four wheels with faded yellow paint, the tan leather interior cracked and bits of nicotine stained foam sprouting up from the cracks. Tom’s smoking a cigarette down to the cherry while Gordy has his dark eyes on the prize: Fox Ridge Vineyard & Christmas Tree Farm. Just out of sight on the wood line, the Cadillac spews exhaust into the night as it idles like a serpent waiting to bare its fangs and strike.
“You think they’re asleep yet?” Gordy asks Tom, pressing the button on his digital watch to light up the Indiglo feature. It’s 12:45am.
“Well if they’re not,” Tom begins and pauses to tap a couple lines of coke out onto a compact disc case—Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits, no less. “They’re about to go to sleep permanently.”
With that, Tom leans down and snorts a line in each nostril and cackles laughter. The kind of laughter that irritates Gordy. Tom has to laugh to keep from losing his mind. It’s not everyday his law partner and closest associate asks him to do the unthinkable: murder a family of four. Frank’s tasked Tom with a lot of bullshit over the years, but the dispatching of the Tyler family takes the cake.
“You wanna hit?” Tom asks Gordy as he holds the small vial of cocaine out to him.
“No thanks,” Gordy grumbles. “I’m pretty sure you don’t need any of it either. Your brain’s fried enough as it is.”
Tom ignores Gordy’s remark and fires up the stereo, the electric guitar twang of “Slow Death” by Flamin’ Groovies filling the air.
I called the doctor
In the morning
I had a fever
It was a warning
Tom’s a big fan of music, even more so when he can find the perfect song to accompany the soundtrack to his debauched life. Tonight’s music choice is no simple coincidence—a man like Tom Wolfe just knows what song to play at just the right time. While he’s popped a needle in his vein or snorted a few lines of blow, even fired up a crack pipe to this classic rock hit, he’s never actually done it before such a monumental task as murder.
Tom doesn’t like to look at this as murder. No, this is just another job Frank has dropped in his life. Frank, that smooth son of a bitch who never manages to get his hands dirty. He reserves the dirt for someone else. Frank’s the kind of guy who’ll find a way to get what he wants and make you feel glad about doing it, whether it’s extortion, blackmail or something as dark as first degree, premeditated murder.
As long as Gordy knows what the hell he’s supposed to do, Jerrod, Martha, Patrick and Caroline Tyler won’t know what hit them. To the outside world, it will appear a mere tragedy, a faulty old boiler at the estate will be the real murderer. Not Tom, not Gordy and most definitely not Frank. Never Frank.
It’s a slow, slow death.
Tom cuts off the car, claps his hands together and pounds the steering wheel as he feels the coke surge through his system.
“Alright short stop, let’s do this!” Tom says enthusiastically.
Meanwhile, Gordy just shoots daggers at him with his black marble eyes and grabs his little helper—his small black bag of tricks. Everything he needs is in there. Never mind Mechanical Engineering For Dummies—Gordy Waller’s got this shit on lock down. While he doesn’t know the entire story of just why his old pal Frank hates these Tyler fucks, he knows enough. He saw it in Frank’s eyes that day back in 1994 at The Brass Bell. Jerrod Tyler embarrassed Frank Griffith, he made an absolute mockery out of him. Few people have lived to see the light of day who have double crossed Frank.
Marshall Bell is one of them. Frank’s former law partner back in Buffalo, the one who managed to extort fifty thousand dollars from Frank alongside their other partner, Dick Rhodes. Frank figured Marshall was just following Dick’s orders. After all, Dick was the founding attorney of the practice. But Frank made sure Dick got his, or rather made sure Gordy handled it.
You see, Dick Rhodes met his maker in a drowning incident while out boating on Lake Erie during a very early morning fishing trip. He was out on his small boat on a warm summer morning in 1990. Dick was fishing solo and had one too many beers in his system when he went overboard sometime before 8:00am. His unmanned boat was found by the Coast Guard just before noon. A few days later they found Dick face down after his lakeside expedition, water logged and bloated, both of his eyes plucked out, probably by a school of hungry fish.
Gordy had taken care of it. He played the role perfectly, floating over in his own boat telling Dick he was having engine problems and asked if Dick take a look. Dick was already four Budweisers deep in his fishing trip when he stepped over onto Gordy’s boat. While Dick was bent over checking the engine, Gordy struck him in the side of the head with an oar, landing a hard blow to his left temple. When Dick’s body was found a few days later, it looked like a simple accident. Dick had had one too many beers, slipped and hit his head on the side of the boat before he fell overboard and drowned. Gordy even made sure to wipe some of Dick’s blood on the side of Dick’s boat so it looked legit. Satisfied with his handiwork, Gordy zipped away in his boat. There were no witnesses to the crime.
Five years had passed since Dick and Marshall had ran Frank out of Buffalo by blackmailing and blackballing him. But it was Frank who got the last laugh. Frank thought about doing Marshall in a few years later, but Gordy talked his old friend out of it. Some things are better left unsaid and unfinished.
Tom and Gordy move in silence through the fields as they make their way to the main house at Fox Ridge. Well, Gordy is the one who moves stealthily like he’s part of a black ops mission. Tom on the other hand, blunders through the field in his state of intoxication, whistling the tune to “Dirty Work” by Steely Dan.
“Would you shut the fuck up?” Gordy hisses. “You’re gonna get us fucking caught before we even get up there!”
“I’m a fool to do your dirty work, oh yeah,” Tom ignores Gordy and croons anyway. “I don’t want to do your dirty work no more!”
“Jesus Christ, this fucking prick,” Gordy mumbles under his breath.
By the time they make it to the basement door of Fox Ridge, Tom’s recited nearly the whole song. Frank had gotten his hands on the keys from Eden without her knowing before they left for Vegas and made sure to give it to Tom. She still had a whole set of keys for her uncle’s house, even one to the basement door. This shit’s about to be a cake walk.
Respectfully speaking, this isn’t the part of the story where you’ll read about how Tom and Gordy pull off manipulating the old boiler in the basement of the Tyler family home so it triggers what appears to be an accidental poisoning of carbon monoxide. I’m not exactly going to write a murder manual here, heh heh. So let us fast forward dear reader to the after events.
Gordy looks over at Tom as he slips the key into the ignition of the Caddy, turning it over to be greeted by silence.
“What the fuck? Get this piece of shit started, will you?” Gordy hollers out.
Tom tries the ignition again but to no avail, so in the typical Tom Wolfe unhurried fashion, he pauses and lights up a cigarette.
“Gordy, stop getting your balls in a twist. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Gordy shoots him a menacing look, wildly slapping the dashboard. “Yeah? You wanna end up getting gassed at Sing Sing Prison if we get caught? We don’t have all night! Let’s go!”
“Relax,” Tom drawls, exhaling cigarette smoke into Gordy’s airspace. “First rule of sitting in this car means no disrespect to her. Second rule, she just needs a little reminder of what a good girl she is.”
Tom pats the dashboard lovingly and winks at Gordy. “Come on baby, don’t leave Daddy high and dry tonight. You’re such a good girl. Who’s Daddy’s good girl?”
Gordy watches Tom with a look of rage as he thinks sweet talking this hunk of scrap will save the day. He knew this was a bad idea, they should’ve taken Gordy’s car, a more reliable and newer Nissan Pathfinder. Something that wouldn’t stick out like Tom’s rust bucket on four wheels.
With another turn of the ignition, the Cadillac fires to life and Tom chuckles as he slaps the steering wheel.
“See? I told ya,” he gloats proudly.
“Whatever,” Gordy mumbles. “Just get me the fuck out of here!”
Tom shakes his head and spins the wheel, the old ride clunking through the field as he makes his way back to Stonewall Road, away from the scene of the crime. He barely taps the brakes as he spins the Cadillac out onto the road and takes off like a bat out of hell, the car practically fishtailing all the way.
“We did it!” Tom shouts gleefully. “We fucking did it! Now, what do you say we ride over to The Pink Room, huh? I’ll even pay for you to get a lap dance.”
“No thanks, just take me back to the motel room,” Gordy insists.
“Oh come on Gordo, don’t be such a Debbie Downer. A little lap dance never hurt anyone. That is, unless you’re some kind of fag…” Tom’s voice trails off.
“I’m no fag! I just don’t want to spend anymore time with you than fuckin’ necessary!” Gordy rips.
“Alright, alright. Don’t be such a queen,” Tom teases. “I’ll get you back to your motel room. But for the record, you don’t know what you’re missing. Just ask your old pal Frank. He’s real familiar with the extracurricular talents of The Pink Room’s staff.”
With that, Tom stomps on the gas pedal and takes off into the night.
….
Sunday, March 24th, 1996
Frank and I ride in silence back to Northfield, the trunk of his Lincoln weighed down with our suitcases and some purchases from Vegas. The past few days with Frank have been eye opening to say the least. He only kissed me that night on the balcony and never made any further moves. Part of it disappointed me but I told myself what happens in Vegas, undoubtedly stays in Vegas. As good of a time as I had with him, I can’t help this nagging feeling that’s clawing at me like some kind of impending doom is just around the corner. Maybe I’m so used to things going wrong in life.
“How are you feeling?” Frank asks me after he’s flicked a cigarette to life with his Zippo.
“I’m pretty tired,” I admit.
“Don’t worry my dear, I’ll get you home so you can get your rest before we go back to the office tomorrow. I can’t wait to see the look on Wolfe’s face when I tell him how much money I won in Vegas,” Frank boasts with an evil sounding cackle.
I recall the night before when Frank hit it big at The Flamingo—fifteen thousand dollars to be exact. It was thrilling when Frank leaned over and passed me a few of his chips before he squeezed my ass.
“Cash ‘em out now or go play your own hand. The choice is yours darlin’.” He told me.
So I did what I wanted, I played won too. Not as much as Frank, but I won a few Gs myself. I was so excited I barely got any sleep. I ended up sleeping most of the plane ride, thanks to one of Tom’s little helpers I’d brought along for the occasion. And now I’m still tired, jet lagged and drowsy as Frank flicks on the radio.
I start to doze off when I hear the familiar voice of one of the on air radio news personalities cut through the haze:
”Tragic news today out of the town of Northfield, New York. A family of four adults found dead in their estate this morning. The local authorities are calling it a freak accident but won’t elaborate any further as the matter is currently under investigation by the Northfield Police Department, and the state medical examiner’s office. We will keep you updated on this shocking development…”
Frank changes the channel, the radio settling on classic rock. His eyes flick over to me and back to the road.
“Did you hear that, Frank?”
“Hear what?” He says, eyes laser focused on the highway.
“The radio just now. You heard him, didn’t you? There was some kind of tragic accident in Northfield. Four people dead.”
“Yeah? Well that’s too bad. Why don’t you just get your rest darlin’? I’ll wake you up when we get home in about an hour.”
I sit up in my seat, now alert enough to be awake. “Yeah, but what if we know them? It’s a small town. I wonder who it was and what happened?”
Frank looks over at me, his gaze flat. “Accidents happen, Eden. Probably a house fire.”
I shake my head. “They would’ve said that on the radio. They said a ‘freak accident’. That sounds pretty ominous to me.”
Frank lights up a cigarette and cracks the window. “Well, I guess we’ll find out when we get back in town, hmmm?”
He reaches over to squeeze my knee reassuringly before he places his hand back on the wheel.
By the time we get back to Northfield, I’m on edge. And when we pull into Frank’s driveway and see Tom’s bomb on four wheels parked in the driveway and Tom’s pacing the front yard like a mad man, I know something is wrong.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is he doing here?” Frank mutters, pulling in the spot next to Tom.
Frank yanks the Lincoln in park and looks over at me. “Wait here. Let me see what Tom’s so worked up about.”
Frank gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him as he walks over to Tom. Tom puts his hands on his head and I can see his mouth moving but I don’t know what he’s saying.
Frank looks down at him, hands on his hips as he shakes his head. Then Tom looks over at the direction of where I’m sitting in the car, nodding his head. Frank says something else and then turns back to me before he’s walking back across the yard and over to my side of the car, pulling the door open.
I can tell by the look on Frank’s face that something is wrong. His normally pale face looks two shades whiter. “Come on inside. I’ll have Tom get our bags.”
Frank offers me a hand to get out of the car and leads me to the front door, unlocking it and throwing the lights on. I turn towards Frank as he closes the door behind us.
“Frank, what’s wrong?” I ask, placing a hand on his arm.
Frank doesn’t say anything, just motions for me to join him in the living room, gently pushing me down on the couch. His expression is unreadable but I can tell whatever Tom’s just told him can’t be good. He kneels on the floor in front of me. He looks at me and there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite place.
“Eden, I’m sorry to tell you this. But apparently there was an accident at Fox Ridge,” Frank announces, his voice oddly gentle. “Your uncle Jerrod, aunt Martha, Pat and Caroline are gone.”
I blink and let out a short laugh in confusion. “Gone? Gone where?”
Frank takes a deep breath, taking my
hands in his. “It must’ve been what you heard on the radio on the way home. Your family’s dead, honey. Tom said it’s been all over the news today. I’m sorry.”
It takes a few moments to dawn on me, to put two and two together. The very news broadcast I heard about the tragic accident of four dead adults was about my family. My strained relationship with my complicated family. The news hits me like a nuclear blast and I gasp, jerking one hand out of Frank’s grasp to raise it to my mouth.
“Oh my God. My aunt and uncle are dead? Patrick and Caroline too? Oh my God. No, Frank. No! This can’t be happening!” I scream.
Frank shakes his head and slips one arm around my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let me make some calls. I’ll find out what happened.” He pats my shoulder and starts to stand up, but I stop him, grabbing him around the waist
“No, Frank!” I yelp like a wounded animal. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me alone!”
And then I start sobbing, clutching Frank’s shirt like it’s a lifeline, burying my face into his waist, my body racked with full on sobs. Frank moves to sit down on the couch next to me and wraps an arm around me as his hand moves to stroke my hair.
“Sssh, Eden. It’s alright, honey,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “It’s ok, just let it all out. I’m not going anywhere baby.”
Those are the last words I hear before everything turns black.
….
Frank closes the bedroom door with a soft click behind him, leaving me in my chemically induced slumber as he and Tom make their way downstairs.
“Fuck, Frankie. You sure she’s alright?” Tom asks in concern.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” Frank mutters. “Gave her a couple of those damn Xanax pills of yours to take the edge off. Might need something stronger when she wakes up.”
Tom’s already fishing into his tattered coat pocket, pulling out a bottle of God knows what, rattling it front of Frank’s face. “These should do the trick. Dilaudid. Shit’s the real deal so be careful and don’t give her too many unless you want her to end up on a slab next to the rest of ‘em.”
Frank pockets the pills as he nods his head towards the basement door under the staircase. Tom follows behind Frank down the basement steps to Frank’s private sanctum.
It’s the typical basement, part storage space and laundry room, the other a finished office. Frank’s home office. By design, it looks like an office an attorney might have if they ran a practice from their home. A large desk takes up one corner of the room with an executive chair behind it and a chair in front of it. A computer sits on the desk, files are stacked neatly in one corner of the desk. Except those files aren’t files for clients, but the files of people that Frank keeps tabs on. They’re dossiers. People who don’t even know they’re being watched by Frank Griffith. Maybe they’re people who owe him favors or worse, ones who’ve double crossed him over the years.
Frank closes the door behind Tom and motions for him to sit while he takes his seat behind the desk.
The two men look completely somber, staring at each other as they weigh the news of what they’ve found out. But then, Tom’s dull blue eyes begin to sparkle and Frank’s mouth curls into a malignant smile.
”God damnit, Tommy! You did it, you fuckin’ did it!” Frank says enthusiastically.
Tom looks like a kid on Christmas morning, fist pumping the air before slapping his fist down triumphantly on Frank’s desk and letting out a Ric Flair style ”woooo!”
“Fuckin-A, Frank! I did that shit! All by my damn self! You should’ve been there! Whole fuckin’ thing went off without a hitch!”
“Yeah, well what happened to you paging me?” Frank asks. “Remember? ’Mr. Clean’? Do you know how late I stayed up checking my pager hoping you and Gordy did the deed?”
Tom waves Frank off nonchalantly. “It’s called the element of surprise, Frankie boy. Besides, I wanted you to be just as shocked as Eden was when she found out. Let’s call it…a taste for the theatrical.” And with that Tom lets out a throaty cackle.
Frank’s grin sharpens, clasping his hands together in a steeple. “Alright, alright. Tell me everything. I wanna know how it went down.”
Tom leans back in his chair and lights up a Camel, taking a long drag. “Well I did what had to be done. Your little bud Gordo and I put our differences aside for the greater good. I mean, there might’ve been a hiccup or two but honestly? These inept fucks around here won’t be able to figure it out.”
Frank’s smile falters. His blue eyes narrow. “What do you mean a hiccup or two? What happened, Tommy?”
Tom takes another puff of his cigarette and shrugs his shoulders. “Not to worry. Nobody saw us, nothing like that. More like, ‘ol Gordy and I had different ideas of how to rig the boiler so it looked like neglect and not deliberately done. But don’t worry. We achieved the end result. Four dead pompous ass motherfucking Tylers. Poof! Gone.”
Frank’s jaw clenches in anger. “Elaborate.”
Tom runs a hand through his hair. “Frank, no offense. But your pal Gordy? Well he’s not exactly smart. I mean the other day? You should’ve seen this fuck. I walked into Faye’s to meet him and he’s sitting in the booth in plain sight, reading Mechanical Engineering For Dummies like he’s reading the fucking New York Times. If he was as smart as you’ve made him out to be, why was he reading that shit? I thought you said he’d done these kind of jobs for you before?”
Frank squeezes his fingers into his fist, his barely there nails digging into his palm. He can feel his blood pressure starting to spike. The thought of Tom and Gordy fucking up something as precious as Frank finally getting Fox Ridge? It’s enough to make him want to reach across the desk and strangle Tom Wolfe with his bare hands.
“Tommy, what happened?”
“Nothing, Frank. It’s done! Alright? We got it done. They’re all dead! And like I said, these retarded Keystone cops around here?” Tom pauses to take another pull of his smoke. “They won’t know the difference. You should’ve seen the miles on that goddamn HVAC system when we got down to the basement. The boiler looked like it dated back to the Korean War. Shit, maybe even World War Two.”
Frank purses his lips together like he’s just sucked on a lemon, shaking his head. “Did anyone see you?”
“Shit, no. Nobody was around. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” Tom chuckles.
But this is no laughing matter for Frank. His grapes have suddenly turned as sour as the shit Jerrod and Patrick Tyler tried to pass off as wine at Fox Ridge all these years. Now, the vintner father and son duo, as well as Jerrod’s wife Martha and Patrick’s waif of a wife Caroline are all wrapped up in body bags at the medical examiner’s office over in Metuchen. As a matter of fact, the two doctors are currently doing an autopsy on Patrick. They’ve already completed the autopsies on Jerrod and Martha.
“His liver’s enlarged,” the one doctor says into the tape recorder after he’s weighed it.
The accompanying doctor looks at the body out before him in the usual Y-dissected fashion and shakes his head. “As young as he is? Surprised the cirrhosis in liver didn’t kill him before the carbon monoxide did.”
The other doctor places Patrick’s fatty, pickled liver onto a stainless steel tray. In the background, The Rolling Stones “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?” plays on the stereo as the two doctors continue the autopsy of one Patrick Jerrod Tyler, aged 34.
Help me baby,
Ain’t no stranger…
Back in Northfield on Requiem Drive, Frank listens as Tom recalls the events from the previous evening in painstaking detail. After Frank’s asked another twenty one questions and Tom has repeated himself time and time again, Frank finally sighs in agreement, like maybe he’s got nothing to worry about. Like he won’t have to end up having Tom snuffed out too if this thing ends up going sideways.
“Look, Griff. I don’t know how you’re gonna pull off getting Fox Ridge all to yourself. That’s on you buddy. I did the hard work,” Tom says and slowly holds his palm out to Frank. “And I expect to be compensated for a job well done.”
Frank takes a sip of his whiskey, looking at Tom in his usual annoyance. “You’ll get it when I say you do. When I get my hands on the fucking autopsy reports for those pricks. And not a minute sooner.”
Tom scoffs. “Frankie, I held up my end of the bargain. I’m sure you got lucky in Vegas too and I’m not just talking about with Eden, but in the casinos. I’d like what I’m entitled to. Don’t act like you haven’t got the cash.”
Frank shakes his head. “Cool your jets. You’ll get your fuckin’ money, Wolfe. But I swear, if any of this shit gets traced back to you and Gordy, well let’s just say the money will be the least of your worries.”
Tom laughs in disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you over the years? You’re gonna sit here and threaten me? Christ, Frank! We’re supposed to be partners. I want my fucking money!”
Frank holds up a hand to shut up Tom’s tantrum. “Shut it, Wolfe. Now get the hell out of my house. Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut too. Don’t go over to the Cornerstone or the Pink Room and start flapping your fat gums. Lay low for a while. Keep your nose clean.”
Tom huffs and drags himself out of the chair and trudges towards the door. He looks over his shoulder at Frank.
“I did what you wanted, Frankie. They’re all dead. A little gratitude would be nice. How about a thank you? Or is that too much for you?”
“Get out,” Frank hisses like a serpent.
….
Saturday, March 29th, 1996
It’s been seven days since my family died in a carbon monoxide poisoning accident. Today’s the day we’re laying them to rest. My uncle Jerrod—as much as the bastard had pissed me off the last couple of months by showing his true colors, his wife Martha who always sat back in the shadows, their nepo baby piece of shit son Patrick and his useless anorexic wife Caroline—all gone.
Even after everything we’ve been through, my uncle Jerrod telling me about my dad, painting him out like he was some fool who couldn’t raise me by himself without taking Jerrod’s hand outs, those family dinners from hell before Jerrod kicked me out of Fox Ridge permanently—after all of that bullshit, I miss him.
I miss aunt Martha too, even if she wasn’t the world’s best cook and passed off Christina’s creations as her own. Maybe I even miss Caroline a little, although she was a cunt. And my cousin Patrick? I can’t believe I’m saying this. I actually miss sparring with the self-righteous prick. Patrick had been getting under my skin since we were kids, always reminding me how he was better than me. He only magnified that snobby behavior as an adult, but the fact that I’ll never see him again and argue with him anymore? It makes me feel things I never thought were possible.
Those four were my last remaining family members after my dad died. And for all I know, my mom who jumped ship to California years ago, she’s probably dead. I have no blood relatives left. I have no one.
Except my savior. Frank Griffith has been there for me every step of the way. My boss turned roommate turned I-don’t-even-know-what-kind-of-label-to-put-on-us has become my only source of comfort and need in this tragic time.
This entire week, he’s taken the reins. Handled the funeral arrangements for my aunt, uncle and Patrick. Caroline’s mother insisted her daughter be laid to rest back home in Albany and that’s a funeral I don’t want to attend. I wasn’t invited anyway. In spite of the tumultuous relationship Frank had with my family when they were alive, he’s been there for all of them even in the wake of their deaths.
Frank’s shown me he’s a true gentleman. And not just a man that I’ve started to develop feelings for.
And Tom Wolfe? Well, Tom’s been Tom. He’s cleaned up his act a little bit this past week, looks like he’s put down the bottle and stopped snorting shit up his nose or injecting it into his veins. He’s gotten a haircut and wears a suit that looks like it was tailored at Brooks Brothers and not the usual stagnant wardrobe he wears. But Tom has kept me sane with the pills he’s been supplying me with. A stronger dose of Xanax to take the edge off, barbiturates at night when I can’t sleep.
It’s a chilly spring day when the funeral takes place at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church in downtown Northfield. Three graves have already been dug out back by a guy who looks like he’s one of Tom’s clients from his side hustle of peddling drugs when he’s not playing lawyer.
I sit through the service for my uncle, aunt and cousin in a welcome chemically induced haze, Frank at my side like an anchor. Any other day, Frank would be his usual smarmy self. But he’s remarkably stoic and even tempered. He holds my hand as I quietly weep as a few esteemed members of the community get up and speak to the testament of my uncle being a man of conviction.
Robert Davis, one of the managing law partners of Crocker, Davis and Thurston stands at the pulpit, clutching a funeral program. The older man is in his early sixties, pencil thin with salt and pepper hair. His face is too wrinkled, his eyes look glassy. He’s my uncle’s lawyer and apparently one of his closest confidants.
“I had the pleasure of knowing Jerrod Tyler for twenty five years. The operation he ran at his vineyard and Christmas tree farm was top notch. He was an upstanding member of this community, one who was a humanitarian…” Robert rattles on.
Tom sits on the other side of me and I look over at him to find him rolling his eyes. Of course, Tom could only play nice for so long. Any other person might be rightfully annoyed or upset, but in my haze, I just accept it like it’s part of the show.
“Humanitarian, my ass,” Tom grumbles quietly as he waves the funeral program in front of his face.
I turn my direction towards Frank who’s leaning back in the pew next to me, one arm cocked at the elbow on the edge of the pew, his other hand still clutching mine. Frank quietly sighs as Robert mentions my aunt Martha now and her love of her family as well as her being a “fine cook”. On the pew behind us, Will Hastings and Christina Torres sit together. My uncle’s longtime farmhand and one of the first friends I made at Fox Ridge, Will, found them all dead the following Sunday morning.
He’d returned back home around 11am, after having visited his girlfriend for the evening. He was surprised when he saw how quiet the place looked. Even on a Sunday as a designated day off, my uncle Jerrod was usually milling around somewhere. Will knocked on the front door a few times and used his key to unlock it. Apparently the strange smell is what hit him first, causing him to gag. He would later tell the police the house smelled ”sickly sweet mixed with rotting corpses.” That’s why they call carbon monoxide the silent killer. You don’t know what hits you until it’s too late. Will immediately phoned 911 after having found Patrick face down on the living room, an empty bottle of wine at his side.
The two medical examiners who conducted the autopsies said my family didn’t even know what hit them. Besides Patrick, they were all found asleep in their beds. For whatever reason, Patrick was up drowning the last of his sorrows as usual before the poison took him out permanently. The police said in spite of the grim circumstances, going in your sleep was the best way to go. Mick Turner of Turner’s Funeral Home handled the embalming process and making sure Jerrod, Martha and Patrick looked as fine in death as they did in life.
“We needed to go heavy on the makeup for Patrick. His skin was so goddamn ruddy,” I recalled Mick whispering to Frank in a hushed tone during the viewing earlier this morning.
“Of course it was ruddy. Pat Tyler was a walking wine bottle,” Frank leaned over to whisper in return.
Someone chuckled. I don’t know if it was Frank or Mick or even Tom. Whatever, I didn’t care.
“Patrick was a lot of fun,” declares some guy who looks like he could’ve been one of Patrick’s fraternity brothers back when Patrick was at Brown University. He has that same asshole look like my cousin had down to a science.
“He always gave one hundred and ten percent. Whether he was on the lacrosse field or later on in life, helping his dad with the vineyard…”
“You can say that again,” Tom mumbles. “Pat always gave it his all when he was drinking.”
Someone in the pew behind us lets out a shrill sounding ”SSSSH!” and Tom just rolls his eyes.
Frank looks over at Tom, his eyes narrowed like a cobra ready to strike. I don’t need to hear what Frank quietly mouths to Tom. I can read lips.
”Shut the fuck up.”
Frank’s grip on my hand tightens and I lean into his black wool coat, catching that familiar whiff of his cigarettes and Old Spice aftershave.
When the service is finally over and done, Frank stands next to me outside in the cemetery as people pass by us, shaking my hand, hugging me and offering their condolences. Tom stands off to the side, hands planted on his hips as he lights up a cigarette.
“Really, Tom? A fucking cigarette? At a funeral?” Frank ridicules.
“Whatever. Don’t act like you’re a choir boy of all a sudden. Surprised you didn’t go up in flames the minute you walked in there,” Tom waves at the church with his smoking hand.
Frank shakes his head in disgust. “Show some fucking respect. Eden’s just lost her entire family.”
A woman with a gray bun approaches me, apparently some friend of Martha’s from the Northfield Garden Society. She pulls a sealed card out of her kiss lock purse.
“Your aunt Martha was a lovely woman. A true friend. She will be missed, dear. They will all be missed,” she says as she passes me the card and gives me a sympathetic squeeze on my shoulder.
More mourners linger before Frank takes me gently by the hand. “Come on, darlin’. Let’s get you over to the Brass Bell.”
Frank had even been thoughtful enough to rent out the private dining room of the Brass Bell for my family’s wake. Frank assured me no expense would be spared. In other words, Frank’s spending damn good money to send my family off in style, even after their overpriced caskets are being lowered into the ground and Tom will probably be snorting lines of stepped on coke in the men’s bathroom of the expensive restaurant.
The limo ride to the Brass Bell is uneventful, minus Tom arguing with Frank about the woman who is riding in the limo with us. Or shall I say girl. It’s the same giggling schoolgirl who Tom had showed up with that one night at the Pink Room over in Metuchen. Now she’s Tom’s plus one, showing up for the occasion half dressed in a cheap dress and too tall heels as she still giggles indecently.
Frank spends the short ride with one hand clutching a glass of whiskey, the other hand firmly wrapped around mine as I try to keep my eyes closed. Only Tom would bring a girl who’s barely eighteen years old to a memorial service for people she doesn’t even know.
I don’t even need to open my eyes to witness that Frank is scowling at both Tom and the girl. I can feel it.
“Is there a reason why this child is riding in the limo with us right now?” I hear Frank snap at Tom.
I open my eyes to see Tom completely unbothered, his arm draped over the young girl’s shoulder as his other hand strokes her bare thigh.
“Tiffany is not a child. And she’s here to support me in my time of need,” Tom declares matter of factly.
Like it’s Tom who’s just lost the rest of his family members and not me.
“I’m eighteen!” Tiffany pipes up gleefully.
“Right. Eighteen, my ass,” Frank drawls in disgust. “And I’m the fucking Pope.”
The luncheon is as fancy as I figured it would be when Frank said no expense would be spared. The Brass Bell is serving the best of the best: overflowing seafood towers, mini beef wellingtons, bacon wrapped scallops, lamb lollipops smoked salmon canapés, even goddamn caviar. Not to mention the open bar because Frank explicitly told me beforehand: ”A sober wake is a crime.”
Top shelf liquor, expensive wines. Someone’s even brought out some of the wines from Fox Ridge, a cruel reminder if I wasn’t so out of whatever pills I’d pumped into my system throughout the day.
And Frank stands in the center of the room, clutching a glass of red wine before moving to work the room, checking in with the people who are at the wake, even talking to people that I’m sure would loathe him on any normal day.
“Hey,” Tom nudges me with his elbow as he comes over to where I sit at a table by the window, staring out at the street below. He plops down next to me with an exasperated sigh. “You need to eat.”
He pushes a plate of food at me, all mixed together like a fucking smorgasbord I don’t want any part of. Food piled up so high like he won’t be able to go back for seconds. I wave it off and stare out the window.
“Suit yourself,” Tom says and reaches over to grab a prosciutto wrapped melon skewer off the plate, tearing into it like a savage.
When it’s clear I’m not interested in eating any of this mess, Tom moves onto some of the jumbo shrimp he’d snagged off the seafood towers. “You know, this thing? It’s a celebration, Eden. Celebrating the life of your…precious family. Your uncle Jer? He would’ve wanted to see you happy. Smiling. Laughing. Eating. Instead of sitting there like someone just pissed in your Corn Flakes.”
Tom Wolfe, the man’s got a way with words. I successfully fight the urge to say something to Tom, reminding him there’s a reason why I’m so glum and out of it. Maybe my family croaking has a little something to do with it. Instead, I just scowl at Tom.
“I too know something about loss,” Tom waxes nostalgic. “I lost the love of my life about six years ago.”
I look at him and snort dry sounding laughter. “Wait. You lost the love of your life? Who was she? A blow up doll?”
Tom laughs a little. “See? Even in this trying time, you’ve gotta have a sense of humor. Her name was Maude Anderson. She was the reason I came to Northfield to begin with. I met her when I was working in estate planning for a law firm in Brooklyn. She reached out to the firm I was with at the time wanting someone to help her finalize her estate as she was dying.”
“How old was she?”
Tom takes a swig of his vodka cocktail. “Seventy five years young. Cancer took her away from me.”
I try to imagine the mess in human form that sits next to me being capable of loving anyone other than illegal substances. It’s hard to reconcile the Tom I know with whatever Tom sits next to me now, eating and drinking as he reflects on his love for an elderly woman by the name of Maude Anderson.
“Yeah, Ma was a real tiger. And I don’t just mean in the sheets, you know? She was keen, sharp as a six blade knife. She might’ve been old and sickly but Maude? You couldn’t get anything past her,” Tom muses.
I roll my eyes. “Surprised she put up with you then.”
Tom shrugs his shoulders. “Please. I was her angel. Her knight in shining armor. She and I understood each other in a way that no one else ever did. That kind of love is rare, Eden. Once in a lifetime.”
Just as I’m about to say something in response to Tom suddenly becoming some romance guru, I hear someone clear their throat. I turn around to see Robert Davis, my uncle’s attorney who spoke at the funeral and one of his friends. The older man has that ”I’d rather be anywhere else but here” look on his face.
“Excuse me, Ms. Tyler. I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Robert Davis, attorney at law. Your uncle and I were quite close,” he announces, formal and dry. His lips press together in something vaguely resembling sympathy. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He sticks his feeble looking hand out at me and I shake it in return. Meanwhile Tom’s busy shoving more food in his mouth.
“I’m sorry we weren’t able to meet under better circumstances, but there is a matter with Jerrod’s estate that I’ll need to discuss with you as soon as possible,” Robert says solemnly.
Tom scoffs and thuds the table with his meaty hand. “Christ, Rob. They haven’t even been in the ground an hour and you’re already wanting to talk shop? Have some class. This poor girl just lost her entire family.”
Robert’s face twists into something unpleasant, like he’s just smelled shit. Robert Davis, the genteel looking attorney, looks at his fellow esquire like he’s biting his tongue with all the force humanly possible. He resists whatever urge he has to verbally eviscerate Tom Wolfe and clears his throat again.
“As I was saying, Ms. Tyler, I am terribly sorry for your loss,” Robert sighs and reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a weighty, crisp ivory business card. “Give my office a call next week if that’s not too soon. There are some details we need to discuss.”
I take the card from him and turn it over in my hand before I feel it being snatched away. There stands Frank, looming down on me with a serious look on his mug. He looks from me, to Tom and then at Robert Davis.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Robert?” Frank asks.
Now Robert squares off with Frank, who I’m sure he can’t stand either. Whereas Robert looked at Tom in disgust, now he’s looking at Frank with something else. Perhaps it’s fear or weariness I see flashing across his sunken eyes but then again, it could be the pills cooking in my system.
“Frank,” Robert says extending his hand. Frank receives the hand shake but he looks Robert up and down like he’s nothing more than a peon. “I was just discussing the matter of Jerrod’s estate with his niece.”
Frank raises an eyebrow. “And what matter would that be?”
“Yeah, Rob. What matter would that be?” Tom interjects like he needs to be a part of this adult conversation too.
“I’m willing to discuss everything with Eden when she’s ready,” Robert says through clenched teeth.
Frank’s pale blue eyes practically gleam. “Then you’ll be discussing it with me as well. I’m her legal counsel.”
Well, this is news to me. But then again, nothing in this strange town makes sense especially when it comes to Frank. Sure, he’s my boss, my roommate, my something else that I’d rather not unpack right now. But now he’s presenting himself as my attorney? Speaking on my behalf?
Robert takes a deep breath and steps back. “Fine, Frank. You all call me when you’re ready to discuss. When Eden’s had time to process her grief.”
“Oh so now you want to process her grief? Good going, Rob. Look at her, she’s on the verge of tears!” Tom snaps.
“It’s fine, thank you,” I offer up.
Robert walks away—no doubt muttering something under his breath, about how Tom and Frank are a bunch of uncouth assholes. Meanwhile, Frank pulls out the chair on the other side of me and sits down, his presence heavy but grounding.
Tom nudges me again. “That prick shouldn’t have approached you at the wake to discuss business. What a low life.”
“Shut it, Tom. Maybe you should go check on your date. Last I heard she fell into the toilet in the women’s bathroom,” Frank snarls as he watches Robert walk away, his eyes zeroed in on him like a target.
Tom pauses mid-bite, a piece of lamb hanging out of his mouth. “Huh?”
Frank finally looks over at Tom, looking deeply unimpressed. “You heard me.”
Tom rightfully interprets that as his cue to leave so he hauls his ass up from the table, taking his plate and drink with him while Frank places a hand on top of my arm.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
I nod my head. “Yeah. I guess. It’s just a lot. This whole thing. The funeral, this shit show,” I gesture around the room.
Frank scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Shit show?” He shakes his head. “I put together a goddamn celebration for your family, honey. One helluva bash, if I do say so myself.” He gestures at the extravagant spread of food on the tables at the front of the room before crossing his arms. “But it’s fine, you’re under a lot of undue stress. I’ll let that remark slide. You need to eat something. I shelled out a lot of money to make this happen.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Frank. I know. You’ve only reminded me of that about ten times.”
“Do you think your uncle would’ve done the same for me if I was the one six feet under?” Frank huffs. “Hell no he wouldn’t. But this isn’t about the money or the differences your family and I had over the years. This is about you, honey. I wanted you to know you have people who care about your wellbeing. People looking out for you.”
“You have a strange way of showing it,” I retort.
Frank laughs a little and brushes some of my hair behind my ear. “And I’m going to keep showing you, Eden. Whatever it takes to make you happy. And Monday morning, you and I are going to pay a visit to Robert Davis and see what he’s got to say.”
I give Frank a nod to shut him up. Frank stands up and leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before he’s gliding away, back to being the good host with the most, acting like a sleazy politician. There’s a certain charm in watching Frank do his thing, talking to people who would normally cross the street to avoid his presence any other day. But part of it’s sickening. Because I know that when it comes to Frank, there’s always some kind of strings attached.
Chapter 14: Daddy
Summary:
In the aftermath of the funerals, Eden learns about the will her late family had in place as well as a special clause. Then, she and Frank grow even closer.
Notes:
I am working on a Spotify playlist that I like to listen to when I write this shit fic. If there is interest I will link it in the next chapter. There are songs included from the story.
Chapter Text
Monday, April 1st, 1996
It’s the Monday after the funerals, the first of April, April Fool’s Day to be exact. Fitting, considering the last week of my life has felt like one long and elaborate joke. I’d spent the rest of the weekend after the funerals in my familiar haze. I didn’t crawl out of bed until after 1pm on Sunday and even then, it was because Frank woke me up, yanking me out of bed like a drill sergeant and demanding that I eat. I protested but he insisted, saying I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. He’d made me a couple of pancakes and some bacon. I picked at the food until Frank told me he would tie me down and force feed me. The look in his eye signaled he wasn’t joking.
I never bothered to ask Frank about taking any bereavement time off from the office, but it didn’t matter. Frank told me he and Tom would take care of things this week and I could come back to work next week or whenever I was ready.
But this morning, Frank had other plans. He burst into my bedroom just before 7am, telling me today was a big day and we needed to go see Robert Davis to discuss the matter of my uncle Jerrod’s estate. I didn’t want to get out of bed, but I did it anyway, throwing on the same clothes I wore to the funeral after I’d taken a quick shower.
Now, Frank and I sit inside the waiting area of Crocker, Davis and Thurston waiting for Robert Davis to grace us with his presence. We’ve only been waiting for an hour and I can tell Frank’s beyond antsy. Not exactly known for his patience, he’s already read two copies of Time Magazine front and back and quizzed the middle aged secretary at the front desk multiple times as to when we should expect Robert.
“He’s with a client, sir,” the woman says to him.
Frank scowls at her, his hands planted on his hips. “I’m an attorney. I have clients waiting for me, too.” He taps at his Rolex. “Time is money.”
“I’m well aware of who you are, sir,” the woman says without flinching. “Mr. Davis will be with you shortly.”
It’s another twenty minutes before Robert himself walks into the lobby and motions for us to follow him after exchanging pleasantries, all polished professionalism.
“About fuckin’ time,” Frank mumbles under his breath as we follow Robert down the hallway to his office.
The inside of Robert Davis’s office reminds me a lot of Ed Collins office, meaning it looks like a real law office and not the den of inequity I’ve grown accustomed to at Griffith and Wolfe, Attorneys At Law. Expensive and heavy furniture, Robert’s law degree and other things of importance framed in ornate looking gold frames. It even smells good, like a cross between sandalwood and cleanliness and not the stale ashtray scent and moral corruption of both Frank and Tom’s offices.
“Please, have a seat,” Robert gestures to two handsomely upholstered hunter green leather chairs in front of his desk.
Robert moves behind the desk, taking a seat as he looks down us from the bridge of his nose from the tortoiseshell reading glasses he’s wearing. He grabs a thick folder from a stack off his desk and opens it, looking from Frank to me before he turns his attention to the documents inside.
“Eden,” Robert begins, “I wanted to meet with you regarding the estate of your late uncle, Jerrod Andrew Tyler, his wife, Martha Elaine Whittier Tyler and their son, Patrick Jerrod Tyler. Now, as you may or may not realize, there was nothing written into the will for you. Not originally.”
Frank rolls his eyes, pressing his fist to his mouth. “Figures. The sanctimonious prick always did have to have the last laugh.”
It doesn’t surprise me at all. Not that I was expecting a damn thing from my uncle, even in death. Not that I even wanted anything.
Robert looks at Frank with thinly veiled contempt, before turning his attention back to me.
“As I was saying, Eden. Not originally. But as the last remaining, living Tyler family member, there is a clause under New York State probate law that automatically applies in cases where the heir passes unexpectedly before assets are transferred.”
I look over at Frank who’s looking at Robert stoically before locking eyes with me. Frank suddenly looks interested.
Robert continues. “Your cousin Patrick was the designated heir to your uncle and aunt’s estate. However, given the unfortunate circumstances that transpired recently, the law dictates that the estate must pass onto the next closest blood relative.”
Robert clasps his hands together. “That relative is you, Eden.”
It’s too much to understand so I just look from Frank to Robert in mild confusion. Frank’s expression is unreadable and he’s grown quiet.
“Eden, you do understand don’t you?” Robert inquires.
“I’m not sure…I think. Maybe,” I offer up.
“Eden, what it means is—,” Robert starts but Frank holds up a hand to cut him off.
Frank exhales in irritation. “Jesus, Robert. Stop drawing it out.” He now turns to me with a large grin on his face. His smile is so genuine it looks like his face might crack. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Frank Griffith smile as hard as he’s smiling right now. Like it almost hurts.
Frank takes ahold of my hand to gently squeeze it. “You’re about to be a very wealthy woman, sweetheart.”
I blink in disbelief. “What? Does this mean I get everything?”
Robert nods. “Yes. The entire estate. The house, the vineyard and Christmas tree farm and all the remaining assets that your family left behind now belong to you.”
“Hot damn! God damn!” Frank says, slapping a hand down on the corner of Robert’s desk.
Robert visibly cringes at Frank’s sudden outburst. He mutters something under his breath and shakes his head.
“Of course there will be a probate process with the court system,” Robert says once he’s gained composure. The court will have to review the will, ensure all legal stipulations are met and validate the transfer of assets. There will also be a standard investigation—,”
Frank waves a hand, already bored of hearing Robert’s declaration. “Yeah, yeah. We heard you. I’ll be handling the probate process for Eden. Let’s get this expedited.”
“Frank,” Robert pauses to sigh deeply. “You know it’s not that simple. There are procedures that have to be followed. Filings, hearings, court approvals…”
“And?” Frank challenges him, his ice chip eyes glinting. “Who do you think you’re dealing with here? Last time I checked, I’m a goddamn lawyer. I said I’ll handle it. Got it?”
Robert shakes his head in frustration and rubs his temples. “Yes Frank, we all know you passed the bar. Given your working relationship with Eden, I think it’s in her best interest if she hires outside counsel. That way there’s no conflict.”
“Outside counsel, my ass.” Frank’s tone is low and lethal. “Not happening, Davis. You’re not fucking me in the ass on this one, pal. Eden trusts me.” His voice turns softer and he turns to me, raising one eyebrow. “Don’t you darlin’?”
I hesitate.
But the truth is—Frank Griffith is the only person in the room that I do trust. I can’t even trust myself in this very moment.
So I give Robert and Frank both a nod.
Frank turns back to Robert, smiling again. “See? We’re all set. We’ll sign any necessary forms today. I’ll go to the clerk of the court myself.”
Robert mumbles something under his breath about ”legal malpractice” but shakes his head anyway. Anything to get Frank out of his hair.
“Are you alright with this, Eden?” Robert asks me. He’s giving me one of those sympathetic looks like a cop would give a battered woman while in the presence of her husband. The woman finally had enough and decided to call the cops on her wife beating hubby, only to realize that if she agrees to have them haul her man away, it will be much worse than the black eye he’d given her. So the cop asks if she feels safe and when she doesn’t answer, he tells her to nod her head if she’s scared and doesn’t feel comfortable answering in front of her husband.
“I understand everything,” I say, to clear any doubts that may be in Robert’s head.
He exhales sharply like he’s just left me to my inevitable fate of being swallowed whole by Frank.
“Fine, let me get with my paralegal. Give me a few moments,” Robert says, standing up and swiping the folder off the desk.
When we’re alone, Frank smiles at me and chuckles warmly. “What do you think about all this? I’d say this calls for a celebration, baby. I’ll take you wherever you want for lunch.”
Lunch is the last thing on the mind. All I can think of is I’m about to inherit everything my family left behind. And not because they wanted me to, but because they didn’t have a choice. Because they don’t have a say in the matter. Otherwise if my uncle and aunt were gone, Patrick would get everything and I would be Eden Tyler, left high and dry. I don’t know what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. My grief over my fractured family gives way to confusion, even anger at them for leaving me in this situation.
“How?” I ask Frank quietly. “How am I supposed to do all of this?”
Frank takes hold of both of my hands, squeezing them, his eyes locked on me with conviction.
“With me by your side. I’m not going anywhere, Eden. I’ll handle everything. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
And somehow, I believe him.
….
A few days later, while I’m at home still processing everything, Frank and Tom are in the office, going over a new case while eating Chinese takeout. It’s late at night, too late for the two lawyers to be working, but they’re used to burning the midnight oil anyway. A shady businessman and town councilman in Metuchen has been accused of taking bribes. Of course he would call upon the likes of Frank and Tom’s legal counsel.
“It won’t be much longer, Tommy. Got the court date set. I’m one step closer to getting Fox Ridge,” Frank says smoothly, leaning back in his chair to light a cigarette.
Tom hums in amusement while he chews his Kung Pao chicken with his mouth open, not bothering to shut it while he’s eating. “And hopefully one step closer to paying me, too.”
Frank rolls his eyes and spins his chair around, moving to unlock one of his filing cabinets and digs through it until he produces a green bankers bag, tossing it on the desk.
“There, here’s half of what I owe you. When this bullshit investigation is wrapped up, then you can have the rest.”
Tom wastes no time grabbing the bag off the desk like Frank might change his mind, unzipping it to find a few small stacks of one hundred dollar bills in $1000 wraps. Five thousand in total. Tom pretends like he’s not fazed by the fact that he’s just gotten five thousand bones for a job well done, but internally? Tom is doing an Irish jig.
Tom decides to change the subject. “You ever get the autopsy reports?”
“Fuck, no,” Frank huffs. “But I will. Detective Quinn over in Metuchen owes me a favor anyway. I made his little solicitation for prostitution charge go away quietly last year. Remember? Now it’s time to cash in. The Metuchen Police Department are assisting our local police department with the investigation. And our good detective is at the top of the food chain.”
“Quinn was always a fucking prick,” Tom says. “I never trusted that shady motherfucker.”
“Yeah, since that time he screwed you on your heroin supply,” Frank laughs. “Can’t blame a man for doing his job, Tommy.”
“Whatever. Quinn was on my connect’s payroll anyway. You know what they say? Snitches get stitches. But speaking of snitches, you touched base with your beady eyed friend back in Buffalo?”
Frank takes a puff of his Marlboro. “Gordy? Nah. Unlike you, I don’t need to worry about him. We’ve known each other for many years. I trust him. He always keeps it clean.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “And I’m sure you’ve already paid Gordo his full cut too, haven’t you?”
Frank doesn’t dignify Tom’s question with a response, just sucks on his cigarette a little harder. Of course Frank took care of his old friend first. He always did. That’s what Frank did for the few Buffalo connections he still had.
“Don’t worry about Gordy,” Frank declares. “What you need to worry about is keeping your head down. Don’t go around town with that five grand, flashing it like it’s burning a hole in your pocket. You need to be careful. No loose lips. I know how you get when you get to drinking too much. Keep your trap shut for once.”
Tom rolls his eyes, clearly not in the mood for another lecture from Frank. “Yes daddy. I’ll be a good little boy, I promise.”
Frank chuckles and snubs his cigarette out. “Good. We’re not out of the woods yet, but we will be soon enough. Once Eden gets everything, I’m gonna propose the housing development idea to her just like I did with her stubborn fucking uncle. Make sure it’s an offer she can’t refuse.”
Tom laughs sarcastically. “You really think she’ll fall for your bullshit? Jerrod and his wine-o son didn’t.”
Frank shrugs his shoulders. “She won’t have a choice, Tom. Eden doesn’t want that goddamn waste of money. Nor will she want the house. All of those bad memories she has there? She’ll be glad to sign it all away. She’ll practically beg me to take it off her hands.”
“But she’s stubborn, Frankie. You know how she is. She might get some wild hair up her ass, like she feels the need to carry on the family legacy.”
“Fuck Jerrod Tyler and his goddamn family legacy! Fuck every last one of them!” Frank shouts. “Jerrod was a bastard! After what he did to Eden, throwing his only niece out onto the street? The last thing she’s worried about is that fucking family legacy of his!”
Tom knows Frank loathes hearing the words ”family legacy” and the name Jerrod Tyler in the same sentence, so that’s why he makes sure to bring it up whenever he can. Even with Jerrod, Martha, their drunken loser son Patrick and poor Caroline snuffed out, Frank still can’t hear their names without flying off the handle.
Tom takes a deep breath, appearing to be the voice of reason for once in this dynamic duo. “Time heals all wounds, man. You need to calm down and let that shit go. You won, Frank. They’re dead. Thanks to me.”
Frank shoots Tom a dirty look and pushes what’s left of his shrimp fried rice into the trash can under his desk.
“No shit, Wolfe. And if I was a believer? Well, I’d say they’re all in hell right now. Every last one of them. Where they fucking belong.”
“Maybe Jerrod and Pat are. But not Martha or the skinny bitch, Caroline. They weren’t that bad. Stuck up, sure. But the real demons of that family are hopefully down there screaming in agony,” Tom taps the floor with his foot. “Jerrod and Paddy Boy. May God have mercy on their souls.”
“Yeah? Well fuck them both. Now, let’s discuss this case we’ve got coming up. It’s business as usual, alright?”
“Speaking of business, I meant to tell you. While you and Eden were in Vegas, I could’ve sworn I saw Bridget’s Jeep in town.”
Frank’s nostrils flare out upon hearing the name Bridget.
“Bridget Gregory?”
“D’uh, Frank. The only Bridget we know. Yeah, that dark Jeep Cherokee. I think it was her. I saw it a couple times. Haven’t seen it since. If it was her, that means she’s probably looking for you.”
Bridget goddamn Gregory, the last person Frank wants to think about. Never mind all the hot sex they used to have back in the day. Bridget was the only woman Frank would ever fully submit to. The woman was always down for wild sex, whether it was up against a chain link fence behind a dive bar, or Bridget wearing nothing but a pair of Frank’s suspenders covering up her pert tits and flashing a pair of hand cuffs at him. Yeah, they had history. But the past is history.
Frank doesn’t need any distractions. He can’t afford them at a crucial time like this. Besides, Eden Jillian Tyler is the only woman on his radar. Because once he gets her, then he’ll have what he’s entitled to.
“I’m not worried about her,” Frank lies through his teeth. “Besides, Bridget isn’t the type of woman to come crawling back to anyone, much less yours truly. Knowing her she’s probably found another unknowing bastard to terrorize and sodomize.”
“The power of the pussy,” Tom drawls. “And that woman knew how to use it. She was something, wasn’t she? The sex was good, right?”
Frank takes a moment to reflect on his past intimate encounters with Bridget, sighing in defeat like she’s the one thee got away, even if Bridget is a black widow in the flesh. “Good’s not even the word, Tom. Sex with Bridget Gregory? Well, it has the ability to swallow a man whole if he lets it. But that kind of sex is exhausting. The woman never turned herself off. Even I couldn’t keep up with her.”
Tom nods his head. “You two were always a lot alike. Bridget’s like the female version of you. But two wrongs don’t make a right. Probably a good thing she cut your ass loose when she did.”
“Nah uh,” Frank wags a finger at Tom and points it back to himself. “I was the one who cut her loose. Bridget was a liability and one I couldn’t afford. And if she knows what’s good for her, she’s fucked off back to Chicago. Now, can we discuss this case we have coming up or do you want to take another trip down memory fucking lane?”
Tom swivels in his chair a little like a child, wiggling his eyebrows at Frank, not in any hurry to actually discuss their true business.
“I’m just wondering something, Frankie. If Eden doesn’t agree to getting rid of the family estate, what will you do? Something tells me this isn’t going to go off as easy as you think.”
Frank’s piercing pale blue eyes narrow. He clasps his interlocked fingers together under his chin, a sly smile forming on his face.
“I have my ways, Tom. I always do.”
….
Thursday, April 25th, 1996
It’s finally spring. The last frost of the season and the temperature is starting to warm up. There is something particularly peaceful about a vineyard in the spring. There is something beautiful about this place, even if the past month has been a constant headache. Fox Ridge Vineyards & Christmas Tree Farm belongs to me now, the entire operation. Earlier this week, I inherited the whole damn shebang after the final hearing in probate court. With Frank by my side dressed sharply, he handled everything flawlessly.
When Frank isn’t being a total tool, he’s extremely meticulous and convincing. I can see why he’s done so well for himself. Never mind the fact that his law partner is barely hanging on by the thread of his tattered suits, Frank is a one man band. He’s the type of man who operates with the utmost confidence of someone who just knows things will usually go in their favor. And if not? Well Frank knows exactly what and who to bend to accommodate it to his advantage.
Today’s the first day I’ve set foot in Fox Ridge since Uncle Jerrod kicked me out of the guest house. After they all died, I never stepped foot in the house. The clothing they all wore for their final departure before being popped into their sleek chrome caskets, all picked out by Frank and my family’s housekeeper, Christina. Frank decided it would be in our best interest to part ways with Christina, offering her a decent severance package. There was no sense in having a housekeeper when there’s no house to be kept up anymore. No more polishing, cleaning, laundry or making meals. Christina didn’t seem to be too terribly broken up by it. Frank’s also proposed I do the same thing with the rest of the farm staff, besides Will and a couple of other people that he says should be kept on until I figure out what I want to do. I’m still trying to decide what I want to do.
The inside of the house still smells exactly how I’ve always remembered, like wood and cleanliness. The house never had that distinct homey smell that so many places have. This is a house that hasn’t been filled with love and affection, but with suffering and occasional anger. Patrick’s constant drunken antics, as well as Jerrod throwing down the gauntlet on whomever questioned how he did things. Aunt Martha sitting there saying nothing most of the time other than changing the subject. Caroline pretending to eat when she wasn’t getting her jabs into me just like Patrick seemed to always delight in.
My family, God rest their souls, were cruel. And maybe this is how I’m choosing to deal with my grief now, because I don’t feel too broken up anymore. I just feel numb and indifferent to all of them. I’ve since stopped crying. Since stopped depending on Frank to do everything for me and stopped depending on Tom’s constant source of pharmaceuticals. I feel like even though four lives were tragically lost in the very house I’m now standing inside of, I’ve been reborn.
Call it a spiritual experience. Or call it a woman who has realized she’s probably not going to have to work for the rest of her life. I figured out that much during the official reading of the will where Robert Davis told me exactly what I would be inheriting.
I stand in the foyer, looking up at the staircase that sweeps out from the right. The impressive chandelier that hangs in the foyer, even the artwork and framed pictures on the walls. Fox Ridge has that genteel old money look of a horse estate, all wooden and gold and ornate. Shades of deep red and forest green with the occasional yellow splashed in throughout. It reminds me of an antique store. Not my style or taste by any means.
“So, what do you think? You wanna keep any of this shit for sentimental value or do you want me to call one of the premiere auction houses from the city to come in and give us an estimate?” Frank asks me after he’s joined me in the foyer from having taken a solo tour through the house.
“I don’t know. There’s some stuff here I’d like to keep, especially family stuff that I know belonged to my dad and his grandfather too. I always did admire the Hoosier cabinet in the kitchen,” I tell him.
“A what? What the hell is a Hoosier cabinet?” Frank inquires as he plants his hands on his hips.
I roll my eyes. “Never mind about the Hoosier cabinet, Frank. I guess I’d like some time to figure out what should stay and what should go.”
Frank shakes his head, slowly moving to circle me like a shark. Suddenly I feel like Captain Quint in Jaws when he tells the harrowing story to Brody and Hooper of having survived the sinking of the USS Indianapolis only to realize he and his fellow sailors had landed in shark infested waters. Now I’m the prey and Frank is the shark.
He stops just about a foot short of me, reaching out to brace his hands on my shoulders. There is something both enchanting and unnerving locking eyes with Frank when he’s like this, in his predatory state. Even his eyes look shark grey now.
“You should sell it all, darlin’. No sense in living in the past anymore. This shit around here?” He nods his head around the foyer. “It’s pointless. It’s just sitting around, collecting dust. No offense, but your uncle and aunt had shitty taste in decor anyway. And I’m sure some wealthy prick would love to take it all of your hands in an auction curated by someone like Christie’s or Sotheby’s. I know a couple people in the city. I’ll make some calls tomorrow.”
Frank seems to be in a hurry for me to get some more money in my hands. For a man that I have no actual ties to, other than he’s my boss and a guy who lets me shack up with him, hump my hand while I think about him, show my snatch to him on the couch while he’s in the middle of touching himself watching a skin flick, kissing each other in Las Vegas and plenty of sexual tension and innuendo between us—WHATEVER the case may be, Frank seems to want something for himself. He hasn’t outright said it, but he doesn’t need to. I can feel it.
“Why do you care anyway?” I ask him, plucking his hands off my shoulders. “You act like there’s something in this for you, Frank Griffith.”
Frank’s full lips twitch and I see the faint hint of a smirk playing on them. “Oh, there’s most definitely something in this for me, darlin’.”
The live wire that’s been sizzling between us for the past four months? Well, it’s getting ready to explode.
“Like what?” I purr. “You think you’re gonna get lucky? This isn’t Vegas, Frank.”
“Get lucky,” Frank echoes in a low voice. “I don’t need luck for that, sweetheart. I know exactly what I’m doing. And so do you.”
And then I’m reaching up to Frank’s collar, pulling him down so I can kiss him on the lips. When I do, Frank growls through the kiss. I kiss Frank like I’m starving and he returns it. The kiss is deeper and wetter than the kiss back in Las Vegas. This kiss feels downright sinful. And damn, if it doesn’t do something to me. And because I like to keep Frank on his toes, I nip at his lip before he breaks the kiss, pulling back from me and bringing his fingers to his lips.
“Ouch. What the hell was that for?” Frank mutters. He pulls back his fingers and I see a little drop of ruby on them as well as his lip. I’ve just drawn blood.
Who’s the shark now?
When Frank sees how the hunger in my eyes mirrors the hunger in his own, he wipes at his lip with the back of his hand and he’s kissing me now, one of those kisses that feels like he’s going to swallow me whole. We’re both moaning, Frank’s hands are sliding down my waist and to my ass as I’m running one hand through his thick head of hair and the other is pressed against his chest.
Frank pulls back, his eyes glinting with devilish intensity. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here, Eden. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Fuck that. Now take me upstairs, Frank. And show me what wrong feels like.”
And so he does, scooping me up in his arms as he carries me up the stairs to the second floor. My hands are wrapped around the back of his neck as I watch him, his brow furrowed in determination, moving around the house like a man on a mission. He reaches down with one hand to open a bedroom door and doesn’t even turn on the lights. Just takes me straight to the bed, which has since been stripped of its linens.
I land against the mattress with a thud and my eyes squint in the darkness, the only source of light coming from one of the lights on in the hallway. I realize where I am. In my Uncle Jerrod and Aunt Martha’s bedroom. In their bed. This should be a reminder that this is beyond wrong, terrible, the worst idea both of us has ever had.
But I don’t let it stop me as I’m yanking on Frank’s suspenders and his tie like a woman possessed. Maybe I am. Clothes come off in a hurry, the pinging of buttons, the soft clink of the button fly of my jeans hitting the floor. Frank reaches over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed, the soft glow illuminating his fully nude figure. The only other time I’d seen Frank like this was that night not long after I moved in with him and he was stroking himself on the couch. Even then, he had on boxers.
Now he stands next to the edge of the bed, his broad chest covered in light brown hair shot through with gray. His cock hangs heavy and thick, already hard. I gulp. Frank’s limpid blue eyes rake me over like a starving man, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.
“God damn, baby. Look at you,” he coos softly before he’s parting my thighs with one knee and leaning over me.
I reach up and kiss him just as his knee starts to work me between my thighs, already finding my heated pussy.
“Oh fuck,” I moan out, grinding my slit against the coarse hairs of his knee.
Frank then pushes me further up the bed before he kneels on the bed himself, flinging my legs up, brushing his fingers against my clit.
“Wet already. My, my, my,” he purrs. I gasp when he slips a finger inside of me. He works me over like this for a couple of minutes until I can’t take it anymore.
“Please, Frank. Fuck me.”
Frank’s not the kind of man who needs to be told twice. He lines himself up, holding his thick cock at the root before slowly pushing inside of me, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving mine. Once he’s buried to the hilt, he splays his hands on each of my thighs and starts to thrust slowly and gently.
“Fuck,” he moans. “Fuck. You’re so tight.”
We find our rhythm soon thereafter, my hips bucking against each thrust. Frank fucks like a man in control, each thrust measured and calculated, much like how he operates in life. Frank fucks like a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it. He doesn’t kiss me anymore but I don’t care. All I need is to feel something, to get off.
“You gonna come for me baby?” Frank pants breathlessly. “You gonna come all over Daddy’s cock?”
I freeze. Daddy. Not a word I like to associate with whatever man I’m going to bed with. Not Ed Collins, not any of the other men I’ve been with and certainly not Frank Griffith.
Frank’s eyes grow wide once I’ve stilled my movements. “What?”
“Don’t say that again,” I murmur. “Just make me fucking come.”
Frank mutters something under his breath, something that sounds an awful lot like ”Fuckin’ bitch” but I don’t know. I could be hearing things. Ghosts, even. God knows if there are ghosts four of them are here in this very house right now, maybe even in this very room watching in horror as their niece and cousin gets fucked into a threadbare mattress by the man they all loathed with such passion.
Frank taps my thighs and pulls out, twirling his finger around. “Flip over darlin’.”
When I don’t do it fast enough, Frank does it for me. He moves with surprising strength, pinning my stomach to the mattress and slaps my ass, pushing it up.
Then he plunges inside of me, his hips slapping against my ass as he thrusts harder and faster. I moan into the mattress and wince with each punctuated jab of Frank’s big dick ruining my insides. It feels good, too good.
I moan louder and turn over my shoulder to look at him in all his glory: a light sheen of sweat on his face, a few lanky hairs have fell over his forehead. Frank’s lips are parted, his eyes watching in fascination with each plunge of his cock splitting me open. It gets me so hot I start to work slam my hips backwards to meet him until he stills himself and lets me thrust against him.
“That’s it, baby. Take it, take every goddamn inch,” he growls.
I feel my own release bubbling up inside of me and I claw my nails into the mattress as I bear down harder on Frank’s cock. He stays still but moves one hand to underneath of me to rub my clit. That’s what it takes to get me there, to have me screaming and moaning loud enough to wake the dead.
“Oh FRANK! God! Yes! Fuck me!” I howl as the wave of my orgasm hits me full force.
Frank cackles behind me like he’s pleased with himself and then starts to thrust again, even harder than before. Hard enough to let me know I’m still gonna feel him there tomorrow. His breath grows ragged, his growls turn into low moans and he slams into me once…twice…and a third time before he moans loudly and buries his head against my shoulder.
“Fuck,” he mumbles before pulling out of me and collapsing on his back next to me.
I look over at him, his cheeks pleasantly flushed and chest heaving. Frank lies there for a few moments trying to get his faculties back together before he sits up and runs his hand through his hair.
“You alright?” He asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” he says and leans over to kiss my temple. “You on the pill?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I’m on the pill, Frank.”
“Good. I don’t need any accidents to worry about,” he says calmly.
This isn’t the kind of post coitus vision I had in mind with Frank. Not him asking me just minutes after he came inside of me if I was on the pill. I thought maybe he would hold me in his arms, kiss me, show me his romantic side like he’d shown me pieces of back in Vegas. But no, Frank’s scooting off the bed and collecting his clothes and throwing mine onto the bed.
“Alright, come on,” he announces while snapping his fingers. “Get dressed so we can go. I don’t want to spend another minute in this goddamn house.”
“So much for romance,” I whisper to myself.
The ride back to Frank’s house is quiet. He’s already smoked three cigarettes since we left the house. He hasn’t said another word, hasn’t even looked in my direction. By the time we get inside his house, he’s pounding up the steps to his bedroom. Moments later I hear water running.
Christ, do I stink or something? Have a fishy pussy? I don’t think so. I’ve never had that problem before. Whatever. I walk upstairs and lock myself in my bedroom and take my own shower. After my shower, I close the bedroom door behind me when I hear a knock on the door. Frank enters, peeking inside, his robe fastened around him.
“Sorry for running off earlier. Catholic shame,” Frank laughs. “You were great though, baby. You…uh, wanna sleep with me tonight or sleep in here?”
I raise my eyebrow. “You think just because we fucked that I want to sleep with you?”
Frank leans against the doorway and takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m not real good at this, Eden. I don’t do the whole commitment thing. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to be alone tonight, that’s all.”
I rub at my elbows. “Alright, fine. But I don’t want to hear you snoring.”
Frank laughs. “I don’t snore. Come on.”
He holds his hand out and I turn off the bedroom lights, following him down the hallway to his room. Frank always keeps his room locked. I’ve never set foot inside of his room until tonight. The bedroom is spacious and well furnished, a navy blue comforter on the king sized bed, with lighter blue pillowcases and sheets. There are a few paintings of sailboats on the wall, and some black and white photos of a lake. Not at all the kind of bedroom I envisioned Frank to have. I imagined the devil himself surrounded in black silk sheets with touches of red splashed around his private lair.
“Those were taken back home in Buffalo,” he says after I’ve noticed the photos. “An old friend took those shots of Lake Erie. Reminds me of what the place used to be like before it went to shit.”
Frank takes his robe off and hangs it up on his bathroom door. He’s standing there in the nude once again. He pulls the sheets back on the other side of the bed and climbs in, patting the empty spot next to him.
“Come on in,” he says invitingly.
Wearing a thin white t-shirt and a pair of Calvin Klein black string bikinis, I climb in the bed next to him.
“Not sleeping in the nude tonight?” Frank asks with a grin.
“I don’t sleep in the nude,” I mutter.
“That’s a shame,” Frank says simply and turns off the light.
He doesn’t try and touch me again, doesn’t lean over and kiss me. He just lies there beside me, close enough to touch. But I won’t touch him. I don’t even feel like myself anymore. Just two hours ago I was letting this man pile drive me into the very bed my uncle and aunt expired in. Now we’re lying here like perfect strangers who have known each other for years. Like we’ve uncovered all of our ghosts. But something tells me this ghost story is far from over.
Chapter 15: Lawyers Guns & Money (Part One)
Summary:
A figure returns from Frank’s past. Tom plots his next move.
Notes:
To any of the The Last Seduction fans: you might like a couple of minor characters who are introduced briefly for this chapter!
Also, I had to split this up into two separate chapters because it was getting too long. Part two will be posted when it’s finished.
Chapter Text
Friday, April 26th, 1996
The next morning, Frank has sent me down to the courthouse with a stack of legal documents than need to be notarized as well as a meeting with the magistrate. It’s fine by me. I woke up this morning, wondering if what had happened between him and I the previous evening had been a fever dream. It wasn’t. I could feel the soreness in my thighs, even the soreness that still throbbed between my legs of having to accommodate Frank’s girthy manhood.
While I smirk to myself replaying last night’s event in my mind, Frank is sitting back like the cat who ate the canary inside of his office. Warren Zevon playing on his Bose stereo. He’s scrawling something in his planner with his Montblanc pen.
The door to his office busts open and in walks Tom Wolfe, his sunglasses perched on top of his strawberry blonde bed head, his tie askew and his shirt rolled up at the elbows. It’s only 9:30am and Tom looks like he’s been up all night counseling a client on death row during his eleventh hour. Except the only counseling Tom’s been doing the night before involved his barely legal tee-hee’ing recent graduate of Northfield High and a stripper from the Pink Room.
“Frankie,” Tom says as he throws himself down into one of the chairs in front of Frank’s desk. “‘Sup?”
Frank eyes Tom suspiciously, his gaze that of both irritation and scrutiny. He sniffs at the air a little, having noticed the familiar smell of marijuana that has clearly followed his law partner into the office this morning, along with Tom’s usual scent of booze. Frank looks down at his Rolex.
“Nine thirty three in the morning and you already manage to smell like a frat house during pledge week,” Frank drawls. “No shower last night?”
Tom holds up his hand. “Don’t worry about me, pal. I’m fine, thanks. We need to talk shop.”
Frank rolls his eyes and sets his pen down and slams his planner shut, steepling his fingers.
“What now, Tommy?”
“That housekeeper of Jerrod and Martha’s, the Mexican that sounds like Rosie fucking Perez? She’s been running her mouth off apparently. My friend at the Cornerstone said she was boasting about the severance package she got from you and Eden.”
Frank knows Tom is talking about Christina Torres, former long time housekeeper for the Tyler family. The one he talked Eden into letting go.
“She’s from Puerto Rico you uncultured swine, not Mexico. But go on.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Whatever, same fucking country if you ask me. Anyway, that’s not all she’s been talking about. She got a little drunk the other night, bought a couple bottles of fucking Dom Perignon for the house and said she doesn’t think what happened at Fox Ridge was an accident.”
Frank presses his lips together in a thin line, his ice chip eyes narrowing like a serpent.
“Who told you this?”
“I have my sources,” Tom says cooly.
“Right. Your sources,” Frank drawls. “The same sources like the druggie Whitney Harrison who hangs around the Cornerstone all day or that burnt out bartender, Don?”
“Look Frank, this is fuckin’ serious. The last thing we need is some loose lipped fiery Latina blabbing that shit around town. Now I’ve kept my mouth shut. You know your little creepy friend Gordy’s as tight lipped as a priest during confession. So where’s this bitch getting her info from?” Tom fires back.
“I thought you said Fox Ridge was empty that night save for the four motherfuckers who got their due?”
Tom shakes his head in agreement. “Yeah it was. No one was around. So it makes me wonder where this bitch is getting her info from. Maybe you need to reach out to that snake over in Metuchen, Detective Quinn. He helped the Northfield P.D. investigate, right?”
“Not necessary, Tommy. The case is closed. You think I give a fuck about some housekeeper who got paid handsomely for her contributions to the Tyler household over the years? She got more pay in her severance package than those cheap fucks ever gave her. I made sure of that.”
Frank’s casual behavior is rubbing Tom the wrong way this morning. He’s not his usual Frank Griffith self—ruthless and soulless. No, something else is going on here. Tom studies his law partner as Frank reaches for his pack of Marlboros and fires one up, leaning back in his chair. Any other day Frank would be ready to pulverize Tom into the abyss somewhere at the slight mention of anyone or anything fucking with getting his hands on Fox Ridge. He’s too calm and collected.
Suddenly, a light bulb goes off of in Tom’s clouded head.
“Wait a minute. You fucked Eden, didn’t you?” Tom inquires.
Frank takes a long drag of his cigarette and lets Tom stew on his revelation.
“You did! I fucking knew it!” Tom hisses.
Frank neither confirms nor denies what happened between them. He’s still half hard thinking about it. He even had to take a cold shower this morning just to stop the morning wood he woke up with while Eden was fast asleep next to him. Sure, Frank could’ve taken her again if he wanted to. But truthfully? Frank sensed something was amiss the minute he emptied a cup’s worth of his jizz inside of her.
Frank’s never been the romantic type. He’s only done so when he’s needed to for manipulation tactics so he can get what he wants. Frank’s not the kind of man who’s going to hold a woman in his arms after sex. Sure, he envisioned his first time with Eden to maybe be a bit more intimate. He even said himself months ago when all of this started cooking that he wanted their first time to be at Fox Ridge, right in his enemy Jerrod’s bed and sure enough it was.
But a strange feeling overcame Frank last night, one he’d rather not talk about. It was like he felt the axis slightly shift last night the minute he orgasmed. Call it post nut clarity. Or call it a man who felt like he was being watched by some unknown presence. Frank’s not the kind of guy who believes in ghosts. That’s child’s play as far as he’s concerned. That’s more Tom’s territory. He still thinks about Tom telling the story how he screamed and ran out of the room the first time he saw The Amityville Horror as a kid. Specifically, the scene where the disembodied, demonic voice tells Rod Steiger to ”GET OUTTTTTT!” Tom said to this day he refuses to watch it and has to bless himself whenever he sees a Dutch Colonial style home in his travels.
Still, Frank had a powerful intuition and he knew something strange happened last night after he finished making Eden his. He’d rather not talk about it again.
“So, how was the poon?” Tom asks Frank, breaking the silence that’s been brewing between them. “Worth killing four people over?”
Frank snaps out of his internal reverie, thankful for the distraction of Tom’s antics.
“Tom, let’s not discuss sex so early in the morning, shall we?” Frank says as he tries to return to some semblance of normal.
Tom snorts cynically. “Since when? The Frankie I know is always looking to get his dick wet. What’s wrong, Eden’s box too busted for you? She got track marks in places you’ve never seen before?”
“No, Wolfe,” Frank says with his signature scowl. “Eden’s box is just fine, magical even. Since when do you care? Where’s your teen nymphette anyway?”
“She’s back home at Maude’s, sleeping off the Quaaludes I gave her last night.”
“Of course she is,” Frank chuckles sarcastically. “Why are you here so early anyway? You usually don’t drag your ass in here before eleven and that’s on a good day.”
“Because! We need to get to the bottom of this with the damn housekeeper!” Tom gestures wildly back and forth between him and Frank. “Maybe we need to give her a one way ticket to somewhere she can’t return from. And get that goddamn money back too. You should’ve given that money to me.”
Frank calmly stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk.
“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry,” Frank says without missing a beat.
“You better,” Tom declares, pointing a stubby finger at him. “Because I might be the one who helped Gordy commit a few felonies that night, but you’re the one with Eden Tyler in his bed, that half cocked will on a leash and a graveyard in his rear view. One wrong word and we’re all toast.”
Frank looks him dead in the eye and stands up, leaning over the desk and pressing his palms flat against it so he can loom over Tom.
“I said I’ll handle it. Got that?”
The two men square off in silence for a moment before Tom sighs and gets out of the chair.
“I fuckin’ hope so, Frankie. Because if I do gown? Then we all go down.”
After Tom’s left his office, Frank straightens his suit jacket and sits back down at his desk, contemplating his next move. He reaches over to his phone and punches the number in quickly. It’s a number that’s been burned in his brain even if he has tried like hell to forget. He’ll deal with the bullshit with the housekeeper soon. For now, he has a more pressing issue. The phone rings a few times before the low and sultry voice on the other end of the line comes though.
“Bridget,” Frank says with a grin. “How’s my favorite femme fatale doing?”
Bridget Gregory sits inside of her black Jeep Cherokee in a sleepy little town about an hour east of Northfield. She stares at her Nokia flip phone in disbelief. Frank Griffith is the last person she ever thought she’d hear from—one of her own personal ghosts. She’s parked outside a crumbling motel with a neon sign that flickers like a million watts, even in broad daylight.
“You still a lawyer, Frank?” The raven haired beauty asks him, jerking down the sun visor so she can take a look at her lipstick in the mirror.
“Yeah. You still a self-serving bitch?”
Bridget chuckles into the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I heard you’ve been sniffing around town lately,” Frank replies, cool and controlled. “Any reason why you’re haunting Northfield again?”
“Bullshit, Frank. I’m nowhere near Northfield. Haven’t set foot there since…well, a lifetime ago,” Bridget lies.
“Cut the shit, Bridge,” Frank snaps. “Tom saw you more than once. That motherfucker might be stoned nine times out of ten, but he’s still got a sharp eye.”
Bridget sighs. Frank’s called her bluff. He always did.
“Fine. I may have been looking for you. I drove by the office and the house a couple times. Didn’t see your Lincoln around unless you’ve gotten yourself a new car. Wouldn’t surprise me with all the money you rake in.”
Frank lets out a dry laugh. “I’ve still got the Lincoln. I was out of town on a business trip. Where are holed up these days? I’m surprised you haven’t changed your cellular number.”
“Here. There. Everywhere. Right now I’m staying at a motor lodge in a little called Mayberry. Ever heard of it?” Bridget asks sweetly.
“Sure have. Cute little town. What the fuck are you doing over there? I thought you were going back to Chicago.”
“I did for a while. But life’s fluid, Frank. Things change. Maybe I’m trying to find a place to put down roots.”
“Put down roots, huh? You mean you finally found a place that lets you cash checks under a fake alias?” Frank laughs, then pauses to ask her, “How’s Clay doing anyway?”
“He’s six feet under, so maybe you should ask him.”
There’s a beat of silence. Dr. Clay Gregory, dead? What in the fuck was going on here?! Not that it surprises Frank, given what he knew of the shifty man.
“Really? What happened to your poor husband?” Frank cackles laughter, trying to be pretend like he’s unaffected by the news. “You finally rip his head off like a black widow does to the male after mating?”
“Something like that. We both knew Clay was weak. Anyway. What do you want, Frank?”
“The question is more like what do you want, Bridget? You’re the one who’s been lurking around here. I thought you and parted ways…permanently.”
“I wasn’t lurking, Frank. I just wanted to see you. Make sure you were doing alright. That’s all.”
“Bullshit,” Frank growls into the phone. “I know you better than anyone, baby. You came around here because you want something. Well guess what? I’m not a fucking charity anymore. So don’t come around looking for me again.”
Bridget laughs, her voice husky and sinful. “Goddamn, Frank. As deep as you and I go and that’s the way it is? I thought you and I had history.”
“We did. And we’re history, darlin’. So I’m gonna ask you one last time. Why the fuck were you looking for me?”
Bridget lights a Camel with a steady hand. Always in control. Always collected. Even when she’s not. “You’re the one who called me. I didn’t call you.”
Frank pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. “Last fucking chance, sweetheart. Spill it or I’m hanging up.”
Bridget takes a deep breath. “Fine. I’ve got a problem.”
“Goddamnit,” Frank mutters. “Of course you do. What now?”
“I need somewhere to stay. You still have that apartment in town? The one above the florist?”
Frank’s old apartment. The one he moved into when he first landed in Northfield all those years ago. Frank loved it so much when he finally made it big (or as big as a scummy lawyer like him can get in a small town) he ended up buying the whole damn building, the florist shop and three upstairs apartments. It’s over on Second Street, just a few blocks away. Frank’s also a landlord, collecting his dues every fifth day of the month like clockwork from the florist and the two tenants. His old apartment he’s kept for sentimental reasons, fully furnished but never rented it out to anyone.
Bridget knows about the apartment because Frank used to let her stay there on occasion. Used to snort cocaine there with her on occasion. Used to drink top shelf whiskey with her there and slow fuck her on the black silk sheets he keeps on his bed there. It’s Frank’s private lair.
“No,” Frank lies. “Sold it a couple years ago.”
“You’re lying, Frank. But I figured you’d say that,” Bridget chuckles, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. “So I took the liberty of researching the tax records over at the courthouse while I was in town. Still owned by one Franklin Hayes Griffith. Sound familiar?”
“Alright, fine. Yeah, I still own it. But that doesn’t mean you’re staying there. We can’t do this anymore, sweetheart. I’ve moved on.”
Bridget grows silent for a moment. “What’s her name?”
Frank closes his eyes briefly. “Don’t worry about it. The last thing I need you doing is coming to town and trying to fuck up what I’ve got going on. If you need some money, that’s fine. I’ll wire you some. But I’m not letting you shack up here.”
Bridget exhales, slow and even. “After all this time and you’re still scared of me, Frank. What happened to the sinister prick in a thousand dollar suit who used to negotiate back room deals in one beat and eat my pussy in another? You finally go soft?”
“I’m not scared of you,” Frank seethes into the phone. “Never was. I just don’t like the excess baggage you bring to the table. I didn’t like it back then and I still don’t like it. How much money do you need? I’ll send it Western Union.”
“I just need to a place to stay, that’s all. Two weeks, three tops. And then I’m gone.”
Frank stews on it. Chews the inside of his cheek, even lights up a cigarette.
“Alright,” he breathes into the phone. “Three weeks and that’s it. Come by the office tonight for the key. But after five.”
“Good boy, Frank,” Bridget says, voice like honey wrapped up in sin. “See you tonight.”
Then the line goes dead.
Frank stares at the phone long after he’s hung it up. He exhales through his nose, his nostrils flaring out. Maybe one of the ghosts of the late Tyler family wasn’t watching him last night, maybe it was a ghost who stands at five foot eight inches, one hundred twenty pounds soaking wet with a head full of thick, dark hair and eyes like black diamonds.
“Bridget Gregory and her impeccable fucking timing. Fuck me,” Frank says to himself.
Frank takes a puff of his cigarette and flicks the ash into the tray and closes his eyes. It’s time to take another trip down memory lane.
….
February, 1992. New York City
The Irish dive bar reeks of cigarettes and spilled Sam Adams. O’Halloran’s sits on the corner of some street and another fucking street that Frank Griffith doesn’t know. New York City was never his thing. Sure, he went to law school here, polished the fine art of manipulation here too. But the Big Apple never left a good taste in his mouth. That’s why he left when he did.
He’s only here because he’s got a meeting with a potential client. A physician by the name of Clay Gregory. He didn’t know much, just that Clay had heard about Frank from someone in Buffalo and he had tracked down his office number in Northfield.
George Thorogood and The Destroyers crank out on the speakers just as the door to the ladies restroom swings open and Frank spots her.
Tall and slender, wearing a sleeveless black top, a black pencil skirt with legs for days. The woman moves in slow sync with the opening beat of the song.
She’s bad to the bone and suddenly Frank’s own bone is gnawing at the zipper of his Geoffrey Beene suit slacks. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, pretending not to be moved by the fact that this woman is headed straight his way in black stilettos.
She drops onto the barstool next to him without ceremony, not even looking twice at him. She flicks her fingers at the bartender and suddenly the gruff man practically trips over his shitty sneakers just to be in this woman’s orbit.
Frank watches the prick bartender who had nearly bitten his head off when he asked for a third shot of whiskey earlier, suddenly crumble under the overwhelming intensity of the brunette beauty that sits next to Frank.
“Whaddya having, sugar?” The man asks in a thick New York accent.
“Double shot of Glenfiddich.”
Her voice is sultry and steel. Instant sex. Suddenly, Frank forgets all about the meeting with this fucker named Clay, who’s pushing ten minutes late.
The woman pulls a pack of Camels out of her purse and before she can light one up, Frank fires up his Zippo in her direction and she turns toward him, her cigarette delicately tucked between her lips.
“Need a light?” Frank asks with a smirk.
The woman studies Frank in a way that makes Frank feel completely seen and he doesn’t like it. She leans down and places her hands over Frank’s as he brings his Zippo to her lips. She pulls back and takes a drag off the smoke and exhales it out the side of her mouth.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Anytime,” Frank responds. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Bridget raises the glass that the bartender had just set in front of her a moment ago and takes a swig of it. “I already have a drink.”
“Well, I’ll buy your next one,” Frank presses. He’s never felt like this around a woman ever. And Frank doesn’t know if it turns him on or scares him. Frank’s not the type that’s going to easily fall in line over a woman, least of all not one he doesn’t even know.
“You Frank Griffith?” The woman asks him.
Frank nearly spills his drink. How does she know his name?
“That’s what it says on my birth certificate,” Frank says with a smirk. “And you are?”
The woman sticks her hand out at him, her nails painted a devastating shade of crimson. “Bridget Gregory. You’ve been talking to my husband, Clay.”
Frank shakes her hand and he’s surprised by the weight of her handshake. It’s not delicate by any means.
“Right. And your husband is ten minutes late,” Frank announces as he taps his watch.
“My husband is a physician, Mr. Griffith. He couldn’t make it so that’s why he sent me. I’m the one who’s meeting with you tonight,” Bridget explains.
“Fine. Your husband mentioned needing legal representation on the phone. I assume you’re able to speak about that on his behalf?”
Bridget nods slowly. “Something like that. I know enough. Want to get a table? It’s too loud up here at the bar.”
And just like that, Frank’s following Bridget to a booth near the back of the bar, right outside the restrooms. It’s quieter back here, a little darker. She slips into one side of the booth and he slips into the other.
Frank lights a cigarette of his own. “Alright, Mrs. Gregory. What can I do for you and your husband?”
Bridget studies Frank with a sly smile, the kind of smile that tells Frank this won’t be some simple attorney/client gig. No, Bridget Gregory has trouble written all over her.
“It’s a private and complicated matter,” Bridget says carefully. “I need to know that we can count on your utmost discretion.”
Frank raises an eyebrow. Of course, his intuition was right.
“Go on.”
“We got your name from Jim Kowalski in Buffalo. He spoke very highly of you,” Bridget says.
Jim Kowalski—one of Buffalo’s original sons just like Frank. Part community philanthropist, part half Polish mobster with ties that run too deep and messy. Jim had been an old ally of Frank’s, another kid who grew up hustling the pool halls with Frank. He also helped Frank get set up in Northfield after those fuckers Dick Rhodes and Marshall Bell ran him out of town back in ‘85. So sometimes Jim sends clients Frank’s way. And not always the most upstanding citizens either.
“I know Jim. We go way back. So, what’s going on Mrs. Gregory?”
“Please, call me Bridget, Mr. Griffith.”
Frank takes a puff of his cigarette. “Please call me Frank.”
Bridget smiles at him, all teeth and takes another sip of her drink.
“I’ll set it up for you. Husband and wife do a one time drug deal. The goal’s a wholesome one.”
“College fund for the kids?” Frank interjects.
“No kids. We need some help moving the money into an offshore account, maybe even a shell company. That’s where you come in.”
“Why do you need me for that? If you and your husband were able to pull off a successful drug deal, you should be able to do anything. You seem like a motivated and smart broad.”
“Jim Kowalski spoke very highly of you, Frank. I get the impression you owe him. So do you want the job or shall I call Jim up in Buffalo and tell him?”
Conniving bitch, Frank thinks to himself.
“I don’t usually deal in those sort of transactions, not anymore at least.”
“Jim told me all about Buffalo. How you got ran out of there by the law firm that took you in. He also mentioned a rather unfortunate boating accident involving one of those men years later. Sound familiar?”
Of course Frank could never be tied back to the death of Dick Rhodes that he orchestrated and Gordy pulled off for him. Sure, there might have been rumors but that’s all they were. Besides, Frank was running a successful law practice in Northfield and only taking complicated cases on rare occasions. His bread and butter were representing the people in Northfield that didn’t always get fair treatment or ones like Jerrod Tyler and his drunken son, Patrick getting yet another DUI. Frank could afford to turn down this referral. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t owe Jim a damn thing anymore.
“What’s in it for me?” Frank asks.
“A nice payout,” Bridget says smoothly, her eyes raking over Frank like a female predator. “And something else, if you’d like.”
Frank can already imagine what that something else must be that his potential client is referring to. Hell, it’s all he’s thought about since he first laid eyes on her a short while before. The woman practically oozes pheromones that any man within a mile radius would smell it and sniff her out. But Frank’s the only one that Bridget is allowing that chance. Frank can tell by the way she’s looking at him that she’s just as interested in him as he is her.
Her husband must not be doing it for her. Frank talked to Clay once on the phone once and determined he was a slippery fuck within a couple minutes of talking to him. Probably some pussy whipped physician that slaves long hours in the emergency room while he’s a full time cuck at home for his sexy wife. He imagines Bridget might even be the type to don a strap on and plug right up Clay’s ass. Wouldn’t surprise him in the least.
Frank swirls the last of his whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the lighting in the bar like a slow burning fuse. Bridget sits across from him, leaning over the table with a shit eating grin, like she already knows he’s going to say yes.
And he is. He hates that he is. But this isn’t about loyalty to his Buffalo roots, trust or even lust for the mystery woman sitting across from him. It’s about control. And Frank Griffith never walks away from a hand he hasn’t already rigged.
“Alright,” Frank says smoothly. “I’ll do it. But we do this my way. No exceptions.”
Bridget’s lashes flick upward. Cool and unreadable. “Naturally.”
“You tell Clay I’ll set up a holding LLC out of state. Maybe somewhere like Delaware. A shell corp named after something benign. I’ll use an old contact of mine back in Buffalo to register the paperwork and make it look clean and untraceable. Then I will open an offshore account for your money. By the time the funds get done getting scrubbed clean, it’ll look like a goddamn tithe from a church fundraiser,” Frank explains casually without missing a beat.
Bridget raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “You’ve done this before.”
Frank shrugs his shoulders. “Not since I had to. But it’s just like riding a bicycle. I don’t forget. Let’s talk payout. What’s my cut?”
“Ten percent,” Bridget says, snubbing out her cigarette and downing some more of her drink.
Frank laughs loudly. “That’s cute, sweetheart. I’m risking my law license and my ass. Ten percent ain’t gonna cut it. Try twenty five.”
“Twenty,” Bridget says sweetly. “And if this works out? Then you get first dibs at anything else that might go on down the line.”
Frank considers. Twenty percent cut just to make a few phone calls and set up some accounts? He’ll never even have to leave his office. Maybe the easiest twenty percent he’s ever made.
“Alright. Consider it done. I’ll be in touch,” Frank says with a grin before parting ways with the woman who will later try to eat his heart out.
After that meeting, Frank drove out to a pay phone near Central Park. Made a call to Gordy back in Buffalo. Within a few days the paperwork for the fake LLC was in place—Mission Shore Solutions—some bogus real estate consultancy. Frank’s old pal Henry Harper? The Buffalo billionaire one who helped Frank out when Frank tried to get Jerrod Tyler to sell Fox Ridge? He was involved with the laundering process. Frank opened up the bank account offshore. Clay and Bridget’s drug deal was to the tune of $750,000. Which meant Frank’s cut would be a handsome $150,000. His twenty percent ended up transferred to another offshore account Frank used under an alias name. As far as Clay and Bridget’s remaining $600k? Frank was smart about it. The funds were frozen for a mandatory ninety days under the terms of the LLC.
The only two people who could access the funds were Frank and Bridget. Clay wasn’t included because Bridget said Clay couldn’t be held accountable. Never mind the man was a physician who took the Hippocratic oath—he wasn’t to be trusted with such a delicate subject. Money was always Bridget’s specialty.
Frank thought that after the deal was done, he would be done and rid of the couple. Things always have a funny way of turning out. Clay was indebted to a loan shark to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars. Not pocket change by any means. So naturally, a little more than a month after the job was done, Frank came face to face with Dr. Clay Gregory.
It was a rainy day in Northfield. Tom was sitting out front in the reception area, buddied up to the television they used to keep there. Like clockwork, Tom would tune into CBS for the daytime soap opera, The Young & The Restless every day. From 12:30-1:30 was Tom’s “quiet time”. It didn’t matter if Tom had walked into the office at noon, he was still going to watch the Newmans hash it out with the Abbotts and the Chancellors.
Tom was in the middle of something that had popped off between Victor Newman and his wife Nikki, when the door swung open and a tall man with light brown hair and a tan Burberry trench coat walked in. He looked like a yuppie. Tom smirked at him before turning his attention back to the tube.
Probably another one of Frank’s fucking clients, Tom thought to himself.
The man cleared his throat when it was clear Tom wasn’t going to greet him. He had interpreted that Tom was just some sleazy looking male receptionist who worked in the law office. He had no idea he was an actual lawyer.
“Excuse me?” The man asked as he approached Tom.
“For fuck’s sake,” Tom mumbled under his breath. “Yeah? Can I help you?”
The man scoffed at him and ran a hair through his soaking wet light brown hair. Tom noticed he might’ve looked like a professional kind of guy, but he also detected some kind of nervous, fidgety behavior on his part. His eyes were darting around, his fingers kept twisting the belt of his trench coat like he was mere seconds away from having a meltdown.
“I’m looking for Frank Griffith. The attorney. Is this his place?”
Tom smirked at him. “Obviously, Sherlock. That’s what the sign says outside, doesn’t it?”
The man rolled his eyes again. “Sorry to bother your soap opera, but I really need to speak to Frank. Is he here?”
“What’s it in regard to?” Tom asked. “I’m kinda in the middle of something.” He gestured to the television.
About that time, Frank walked down the hallway needing to make a few copies on the ancient Xerox machine out front.
The man in the trench coat turned his attention to Frank. Frank didn’t know who he was or if the guy was lost or what but he clearly had something he needed help with.
“Can I help you?” Frank asked.
“Yeah,” the man said as he approached him. “Are you Frank?”
“No shit,” Tom replied.
Frank shot Tom a snide look and turned his attention back to the man. “That’s me. And who are you?”
“Dr. Clay Gregory,” Clay said, sticking his right hand out which was visibly trembling. “I believe you know my wife.”
Frank sized him up immediately. He looked exactly like the kind of man who Bridget would keep under her manicured thumb. Slippery, desperate and shaking.
Frank shot Clay a winning smile, all teeth and returned the handshake. “Dr. Gregory, of course. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. Please, follow me.”
Frank lead Clay back to his office and shut the door behind him and motioned for him to have a seat while Frank took the chair behind his desk and asked Clay what he could do for him.
“Uh, I realize that you and Bridget are the only ones with access to the funds,” Clay began. “She said something about a mandatory ninety day waiting period.”
“That’s right,” Frank said, shaking his head in agreement. “The deal’s done, doctor. If it serves my memory correctly, it’s only been around forty days.”
“Forty seven,” Clay corrected him. “Forty seven days since you took our money.”
Frank laughed a little. “Your money, huh? I didn’t take your money, Clay. You and your wife hired me to help move your money for you. The terms of the LLC were all in the paperwork. Ninety day waiting period.”
Clay raises his hands up in defense. “I don’t disagree with the terms. But I need some money sooner than that. I can’t wait ninety days.”
Frank eyed him in annoyance. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? As much as you sharks charge people, you mean to tell me you don’t have money lying around?”
“Not that much!” Clay shouted, leaning forward in his chair. “I really need some money Frank. It’s my money too.”
Frank swiveled in his chair a little and lit a cigarette. Watched this Clay Gregory fuck squirm. Frank liked it best when people were squirming and Clay was as slippery as they come.
“How much money?” Frank asked after a few beats of silence.
Clay gulped. “One hundred thousand.”
Frank balked, then he laughed. Cackled.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. You’ll have to wait the ninety days.”
Now Clay smacked the edge of Frank’s desk. He was starting to come unglued. “I can’t wait ninety fucking days! I owe someone! And if I don’t pay up! W-well I’m fucked!”
Frank took a drag off his Marlboro. “Yeah? Tell someone who gives a fuck. You and your wife should’ve thought that over before you called on me. Should’ve thought that over before you tried to pull off a drug deal.”
“Goddamnit!” Clay hollered. “I’m gonna die if I don’t pay this guy back! My life is on the line!”
Frank wasn’t moved. He had heard every excuse under the sun from desperate men just like Clay Gregory over the years. It was a broken record.
“Yeah? Well play stupid games, win stupid prizes, Doc. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do,” Frank said, standing up to look down at Clay.
Clay held Frank’s gaze before he dashed out of the office, rain soaked, his pride all shot to hell.
“Sucker,” Frank muttered. “Just like I imagined him to look.”
Less than 24 hours later, Bridget herself showed up at the law office of Griffith and Wolfe. Tom almost fell out of his chair when he saw the tall, leggy brunette roll into the office, a scowl across her sultry face and the kind of beauty that would make the normally impotent Tom bust a nut within a minute.
She walked past where Tom was holed up in the reception area, watching The Price Is Right while he waited for his soap opera to come on.
“Hey! You can’t go back there!” Tom hollered as she walked past him and down the hallway.
She turned around and cut him with her eyes, enough to make Tom freeze in his tracks. Tom knew better than to mess with the mysterious woman. It was no surprise when she disappeared behind Frank’s office door. And it certainly wasn’t a surprise when less than 15 minutes later, Frank was following her out of the office like a bitch in heat.
“Tom, I won’t be back. Lock up the office when you’re done,” Frank told him as he slipped on his coat and closed the door behind him.
The next day, Frank showed up to the office later than he ever did. Tom was there early enough as he had a 9:30 meeting with a client. Frank himself didn’t roll in until quarter til noon and when he did? He looked like a man who’d been up all night and not from insomnia. No, it was from something else.
“You’re late,” Tom said for the first time ever to his law partner. Normally, that was a phrase that Frank reserved for Tom.
Frank held up his hand. “Piss off, Tommy. I had important matters to tend to.”
Tom chewed on a dirty fingernail and studied Frank. Frank, always the master of control, looked like he’d been riding the love rollercoaster all night. He’d shown up in the same clothes he had on the day before, something Frank never did.
“Uh huh,” Tom said unconvinced. “Those important matters have something to do with that broad that was in here yesterday?”
“Don’t start.”
“Was she connected to that shaky fucker who came in here soaked the other day?” Tom asked.
Then Frank did something else he never did. He spilled his guts to Tom Wolfe. Told him about the whole deal. Told him how Dr. Clay Gregory was going to get whacked by a loan shark if he didn’t come up with a one hundred thousand dollars. And how Bridget managed to get one hundred thousand out of Frank’s own private stash so she could help out her husband.
“What the hell, Frankie? You gave that bitch one hundred k of your own money? Have you gone mad?” Tom inquired.
Frank took a deep breath and lit up a cigarette. “I think I’m in love, Tom. That woman did things to me no woman has ever done to me before.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Damn, Frank. Get real. That bitch was only using you. I’m willing to bet you one hundred bucks that she isn’t even going to use that money to help her shifty eyed husband out. He’ll probably end up whacked by the end of the week. And once those 90 days are up? Well she’ll drain the whole fucking account and you won’t get your money back.”
Frank shook his head in defeat. “I was smart about it. She needs my permission to withdraw any funds once the mandatory waiting period is up. A two factor authentication system. So I’ll get my fucking money back, don’t worry.”
Sure enough, Frank got his money back. And sure enough Bridget drained the account dry with the remaining $500,000 that was left to her. Then she took off and left her doctor hubby in the dust . She’d call Frank on occasion when she came to town, Frank always letting her stay in the apartment above the florist shop. She tried to rope Frank into other ventures after that, but Frank resisted the offers. He was done with Bridget.
Or so he thought he was done. Or so he told himself.
….
The Present Day, 1996
Frank stands in his apartment, gazing out the window while Bridget lies in bed behind him, smoking a cigarette in nothing but a lacy black thong. Of course Frank let her back in. And of course he’d fucked her. Never mind Eden. He found it hard to resist Bridget even after all this time.
“The white Beamer parked in front of your house? It belongs to your girl?” Bridget asked.
“Yeah,” Frank responds. Eden, his girl.
“I figured. I saw it when I was looking for you while you were out of town. Pretty fancy car she’s got. Who is she?”
Frank turns around, his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry about it. What you’re going to worry about is keeping clean and quiet while you’re here in town. Don’t come around the office or the house. You stay here three weeks then you get out. Simple as that.”
Bridget turns toward Frank, propping her head up with elbow and takes a drag from her cigarette. “We’ll see.”
Frank walks towards the bed and shakes his head. “No, you will comply with me, Bridget. No more trying to call the shots. This is my town. If you don’t like it? You can get the fuck out.”
Bridget laughs. “Whatever, Frank. You and I both know I’m the only woman who has you by the balls. It would serve you well to follow my rules.”
Frank smirks at her. “And what would rules would that be?”
Bridget snubs out her cigarette and climbs out of bed, putting her blouse back on.
“I need money.”
“Goddamnit,” Frank hisses. “Let me guess, you’ve already pissed through the five hundred?”
“That was four years ago, Frank. That money is long gone. Clay didn’t leave me shit in the end. Can you believe some bastard tied him up and killed him with a can of mace? Emptied the whole thing right down his throat? What kind of monster does that?”
“You seem real sad about it too,” Frank says sarcastically. “I’m sure you know exactly who killed Clay. Poor fuck.”
“Clay was always the weak link. Not my fault he couldn’t handle the game of life,” Bridget says.
It wouldn’t surprise Frank if Bridget was the one who offed her husband. He wouldn’t even put murder past the femme fatale. So that’s why tonight Frank has to get rid of this problem once for all. The last thing he needs is Bridget hanging around Northfield, fucking things up for him. No, Bridget needs to go away permanently. Frank, ever the master of control, already has Gordy on standby. As a matter of fact, he’s currently lurking in the shadows of the apartment. He’d been there since before Frank and Bridget rolled in. And of course he’d heard the whole sex exchange between them from the closet he was holed up in. Cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes. Just another day in the life of Gordy Waller, Frank’s fixer.
Except for tonight. Tonight’s going to be the night that Gordy doesn’t lay a hand on someone. No, Frank needed to do this himself. Frank was used to pulling the strings, giving the orders. Tonight? Frank’s doing it all. Because Frank knows if he does it, he’ll have living proof the plan went accordingly. Not that he doesn’t trust Gordy, but he doesn’t want to have to pay a hefty disposal fee to his old pal.
Bridget pulls her black pencil skirt back on and walks around the apartment, almost like she’s looking for something. Frank can tell she’s got something up her sleeve. She always does. She stops near the windows, where Frank has a large swath of clear plastic tarp up like a painter would use. The place even smells like fresh paint. It was all a ruse though.
When it comes to Frank Griffith, things aren’t always as they seem.
“What, are you doing some home improvements now, Frank?” Bridget asks as she flicks at the plastic covering, a smirk on her face.
“Place needed a fresh coat of paint,” Frank says, unbothered.
Then he walks over to the kitchen space, stands at the island and starts pulling out a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses, like he’s going to make them both a post coitus drink. Only one of them’s going to drink it though. Frank grabs the remote for the nearby stereo system and presses the power button, jacking the volume up a little.
‘Ol Blue Eyes himself—not Frank Griffith—but Frank Sinatra croons about strangers in the night.
Then he pulls out a the drawer where he used to keep silverware stashed and there it is: a chromed out 9mm with a silencer. Courtesy of Heckler & Koch and of course, Gordy’s personal stash. No serial numbers. They’d been filed off long ago. Clean and untraceable. Gordy had left the piece in the apartment earlier, just like he and Frank had previously discussed.
Bridget turns and walks towards the island. Frank wraps his hands around the pistol with one hand and continues pouring the Jim Beam in one glass, then the other. The way Frank’s island is situated, it has a counter space on top so Bridget can’t exactly see what he’s doing with his other hand. Frank takes calm a sip of his whiskey, his blue eyes twinkling under the suspended bar style lighting of his kitchen.
He sits the glass down and then he raises the pistol towards Bridget. At first, she continues to smirk, until Frank pulls the slide back. Her expression changes from a smirk to confusion.
“What’s all this?”
Frank shrugs and walks out from around the island. “This?” He asks, lightly waving the gun around. “This is insurance, sweetheart. This is the end game and the end of your game.”
Bridget backs away from him and right towards the windows, right where that plastic tarp was conveniently placed.
“You son of a bitch!” She says and tosses a heavy ashtray at him that was on an end table near the couch. Frank dodges it, the pistol still trained on Bridget.
Frank chortles loudly. “Any last words Bridge?”
Bridget Gregory never thought she’d go out like this. Sure, she’d emptied a can of mace down her husband’s throat, set people up time and time again. She always came out on top. But tonight is different. Tonight she won’t win.
“Fuck you, Frank! You always were a lousy lay!” Bridget hisses.
Frank doesn’t laugh this time. He squeezes the trigger and fires the first shot in her chest, followed by another. She falls and slumps backwards onto the plastic tarp and Frank looms over her. Bridget clutches at her chest where the crimson is fast pooling on account of the two bullets Frank had just put in her. Bridget makes a gurgling noise, blood starting to come out of her mouth. Frank tilts his head from side to side as he watches her.
Then like the villain he is, he crouches down and lowers the butt of the silencer to her forehead right between her eyes.
“See you in hell.”
And with that, Frank squeezes the trigger again. Bridget’s eyes are open until the bullet rips through her head. Blood sprays out on the tarp just like Frank wanted it to. There had been no fresh coat of paint, just a can of opened paint hidden behind the couch for the last two days to let the fumes drift through the apartment.
“Something in your eyes, was so inviting. Something in your smile, was so exciting. Something in my heart, told me I must have you,” Frank sings along with Frank Sinatra.
Gordy fumbles out of the closet, wearing all black from head to toe, even black rubber gloves. He walks over to where Frank stands, looking down at Bridget.
“That was easier than I thought,” Frank says casually like he’d just passed an exam and not the fact he had committed first degree murder. He passes the gun to Gordy.
“Right,” Gordy responds, setting the gun down on the end table. “Let’s roll her up in this tarp. I’ve got the car parked out back in the alley.”
Frank yanks off his button down, left in a white sleeveless man’s undershirt. One of those fucking wifebeaters. He’d worn a cheap suit from JcPenney just for this momentous occasion. Frank wasn’t going to dirty up his premiere threads from Geoffrey Beene, Joseph A. Bank and Brooks Brothers. In other words, he doesn’t care if he gets these clothes dirty.
Twenty minutes later, he stands in the alleyway behind the building where Gordy had parked right outside the florist shop’s rear entrance. Gordy was driving a burner car with stolen plates, an old Mercury with a spacious trunk. After he disposes of Bridget’s body like he and Frank had discussed, he’ll get rid of this fucking thing too.
Gordy thumps the trunk closed and looks at Frank. “I’ll page you when it’s done and then I’m headed back to Buffalo.”
Frank pulls a rolled up wad of cash out of his pants pocket, two thousand dollars. All in a night’s work. “Do me a favor and hang around for a few days, Gordy. There’s another complication that has arisen that also needs to be dealt with.”
Gordy raises his eyebrow. “What now?”
Frank lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. “The Tyler clan’s old housekeeper, Christina Torres. Tom said she’s been going around town bragging about her severance check and how she thinks what happened to her bosses wasn’t an accident.”
Gordy rolls his eyes. “Frank! Do you actually believe that dimwit? Tom is a moron. If he’s not drunk, he’s high. If he’s not high, he’s drunk. What the hell does he know?”
Frank exhales smoke through his nose. “Look, just do what I tell ya, alright? You can stay in the apartment if you want. Otherwise, I’ve got the safe house in Metuchen.”
Another one of Frank’s properties. An old crack den that he’d refurnished and lets Tom run drugs out of sometimes.
“I’ll get a motel room. Last place I want to do is stay up there,” Gordy points to the building.
Frank cackles. “What? You afraid of ghosts or something?”
No, Gordy’s not afraid of ghosts. But he is spooked at Frank’s calm demeanor after just having whacked his former lover. Gordy still remembers his first kill, back when he was nineteen. It was armed robbery gone wrong. He shot an elderly man who ran a liquor store in Ithaca. And although there have been many bodies since then, Gordy still sees the man’s haunting visage in his sleep. He’ll often wake up bathed in sweat with the terrifying image of the man lying dead with a shotgun blast to his chest and stomach. According to Frank, he’d never killed anyone before but Gordy doesn’t think his old friend’s being entirely truthful. It came too easy for Frank. Too fucking easy.
“Frankie, you and I have known each other since I was a kid and you were a teenager,” Gordy begins and takes a deep breath. “You mean to tell me tonight’s the first night you’ve actually…you know…murdered someone?”
“Sure was,” Frank declares. “That bitch,” Frank gestures with his smoking hand towards the trunk of the Mercury. “She had it coming. What, you think I’m supposed to be broken up or something? She got what she deserved. No one’s gonna be shedding any tears over that cunt. Trust me.”
“Yeah,” Gordy mutters. “I gotta get a move on. I’ll page you later. Ok?”
Frank nods his head and watches Gordy get behind the wheel of the car and drive off down the alley.
Frank had just lied to his friend. Some secrets are better left unsaid. Of course Bridget Gregory wasn’t his first kill and probably wouldn’t be his last. But nobody needs to know that now. It’s just another pocket in Frank Griffith’s twisted, cunning mind.
To Be Continued…
Chapter 16: Lawyers Guns & Money (Part Two)
Summary:
A continuation of the previous chapter.
Notes:
I started writing this chapter in early May and just recently finished it. Maybe I will finish this shit fic one of these days! There are probably errors here if so, ignore them. I was in a hurry. Plenty of songs to listen to in this chapter though!
Chapter Text
Across town, Tom is on his third Mai Tai at the Cornerstone, humming along to the song that’s currently playing— “Couldn’t Get It Right” by Climax Blues Band. He’s sitting in his usual spot at the far end of the bar, making small talk with the bartender, Don. He’s also hoping he’ll see Christina there. When Frank told Tom earlier that he would handle her, Tom decided to take matters into his own hands.
Frank’s not going to handle shit, Tom told himself as he stewed in his office earlier that day. No, he’ll probably call me again. Or his creepy ass friend from Buffalo. I might as well take care of her myself. Sooner rather than later.
“Hey Don, you see that Mexican girl in here lately?” Tom asks.
The bartender is wiping down beer glasses and tosses a look at Tom, one bushy eyebrow raised either in confusion, offense, or maybe both.
“What Mexican?”
“You know, the housekeeper that worked for Jerrod Tyler. The one with the big mouth?”
Don shrugs his shoulders. “She was in here a couple of nights ago. Why?”
“Just wondering,” Tom says. “Do you know much about her?”
“She used to come in here sometimes on the weekends when she was off from Fox Ridge. Would hang out with some of farmhands. They’d come in here and get drunk but they always paid their tab. But no, I don’t really know her.”
“That’s a shame,” Tom says.
Don looks at Tom with a puzzled expression. “Why you asking anyway?”
Tom twirls the little plastic umbrella in his drink. “Well, I was thinking of making a move,” Tom lies smoothly. “I saw her at the funeral. That ass of hers really filled out her dress. She’s a real fox.”
Don continues wiping down beer glasses. “Don’t get any ideas, Wolfe. Her boyfriend lives in Metuchen. Runs with that motorcycle club. Sons of Disorder. Darryl King.”
Tom swallows the rest of his drink in one gulp. Fuck! Darryl King? I ripped that son of a bitch off a few years ago with stepped on cocaine! Goddamnit!
Back in ‘91, Tom sold Darryl King some rotten coke at a premium price. Tom had been doing it to clients for years, even back in his glory days at Hofstra University. Most of these druggies around here didn’t give a shit, they just wanted a quick and cheap fix. However, Darryl wasn’t stupid. When he found out the cocaine had been mixed with baby powder and a cleaning agent, he went after Tom. Hard. Smashed all the windows of the Cadillac out and beat Tom up, breaking his nose and blacking his eyes. Told him to stay out of his sight or else he’d get rid of him permanently. Then Darryl moved on up with the Sons of Disorder, going from a peon prospect to a leather kutte wearing sergeant at arms who had added drug dealing to the club’s already nefarious repertoire.
Tom was fortunate to not have to cross paths with him again. That is, until the winter of 1994 when Darryl showed up at the office demanding legal representation. Frank was out of the office that day so the best chance Darryl had was Tom. Darryl wasn’t too keen on seeing Tom again, but Tom agreed to represent him pro bono and Darryl agreed to let bygones be bygones for the time being. It was an assault and battery case and Tom got Darryl off due to ”a state of extreme mental duress.” Darryl had beaten the shit out of a Canadian tourist who was taking pictures of Darryl’s beloved Harley outside the 7-Eleven. In the end, he got sentenced to community service at the animal shelter and paid some fines. He didn’t serve a day in jail. His consolation prize was a pit bull he rescued from the animal shelter that he named Remy.
Still, Tom didn’t want any further dealings with Darryl. Darryl being Christina’s boyfriend would make things a hell of a lot harder. Tom knew where Darryl lived in Metuchen. He imagines that Christina has probably moved in with him since she got let go from Fox Ridge. Tom will really have to think this one through. Don turns his attention to an old drunken war vet who’s just sat down and signaled for him to order a drink.
Tom lights up a Camel and digs in the pocket of his suit jacket for a small notepad he keeps on him at all times. He leafs through it until he finds what he wants and then walks to the private pay phone at the rear of the Cornerstone near the bathrooms. He slips inside the booth and dials the number.
“What?” A cranky voice sounds on the other end of the line.
“Hey, sport. It’s Tom. How’s it going?” Tom asks.
“Huh? Tom who?”
Tom sighs. “Don’t ‘Tom who’ me. It’s Tom Wolfe!”
“Oh. Fuck me. What do you want?” The man spits.
“Just a little chat from one friend to another, Bob. How’s life treating you these days?”
A grunt on the other end of the line followed by the sound of glass breaking. “How’s life treating me? I’m about to get my goddamn leg amputated, that’s how life’s treating me. What do you want anyway? I paid my bill.”
Bob Vance, the town outcast. Bob had killed his wife during a crime of passion during the summer of 1989. Rumors swirled all through the town he’d killed his first wife in his home state of Michigan before landing in New York. Frank and Tom worked together as defense attorneys for Bob on the much publicized trial the townsfolk called ”The Crime of the Century.” The trial took place in 1990, not long after Tom linked up with Frank and his practice. The two men were able to pull off a winning verdict for the troubled man. They were like a future version of O.J. Simpson’s Dream Team.. Johnnie Cochran, Robert Shapiro, Robert Kardashian, F. Lee Bailey and others who helped get their star client off of two counts of murder against his ex-wife and her friend. Tom even has a framed photo of O.J. and his all star attorneys in the courtroom framed and hanging up in his office, right next to his law degree.
Tom didn’t know who else to call and that’s why he reached out to Bob tonight. Bob had killed his wife and gotten off. He’d probably do it again for the right price. Plus, Bob had a hell of a temper when provoked and he could put that to good use if they needed to strong arm Darryl. A bum leg or not, Tom’s not worried about that.
“Shit. Sorry to hear that. You still living on Francis Street?” Tom asks.
“You know I had to sell my fucking house to pay you and Frank off,” Bob seethes. “I live in Northfield Acres now you fat ass!”
“Oof,” Tom groans. Northfield Acres—the town’s only mobile home park. A real special breed of denizens. Even Tom knows he’s not that low to live there. Some of Tom’s clients live there, like Whitney Harrison, even the kid Mike Deal from the Mini Mart that Tom represented recently, junkies and various women Tom has copulated with in the past.
“Anyway, yeah. Sorry about that. It’s water under the bridge, right?” Tom asks Bob.
“What the fuck do you want Wolfe?” Bob barks into the phone.
“It’s a personal matter,” Tom says. “Can I stop by? Maybe bring you some groceries or food? Booze?”
“I don’t need a goddamn thing from you! Goodbye!” Bob spits into the phone before hanging up.
Tom sighs and places the receiver back in the cradle.
“Tough shit,” Tom mutters to himself. “I’m coming over whether you like it or not. Prick.”
And with that, Tom tears out of the phone booth and heads to the men’s bathroom to take a leak and splash some water on his face.
By the time he reaches Northfield Acres, he’s got the heebie jeebies.
Northfield Acres looks like the kind of place that smells like hot dog water and despair. Aluminum and vinyl sided trailers scattered throughout, busted porch lights and plastic flamingos in people’s yards. Real Americana hard at work. Tom had gotten Bob’s trailer number from the super just as he was pulling out for the night.
Tom pulls up in front of lot number 15, where a rusted out Ford F150 is parked and a cracked lawn gnome with missing teeth grins at him.
Tom knocks twice on the flimsy aluminum door. He can hear the faint moans of a pornographic film coming from inside the threadbare trailer and Bob cussing inside.
A minute later the door creaks open to reveal Bob Vance—shirtless, skin like fried chicken, cigarette glued to his bottom lip. His dark hair’s slicked back with something that looks suspiciously like a mix of pomade and axle grease, and his eyes narrow when he sees Tom.
“Well well well,” Bob rasps, leaning on his cane. “If it ain’t Atticus fuckin’ Finch.”
Tom smirks. “You always this warm with your old defense attorney?”
“What do you want? I told you I’m not interested!” Bob shouts.
Tom flashes Bob a wide grin. “I don’t want anything, sport. Just a little visit to my most infamous client. That’s all.”
Bob scoffs and steps aside to let Tom into the trailer. Tom’s greeted by the smell of cat piss and stale beer. Sure enough, he’s got a porn playing on his rickety television set in the corner. The coffee table in between the television and couch is littered with cigarette butts, beer cans and Chinese takeout containers.
“Nice place, Bob. Looks like you’re doing alright,” Tom says as he looks around.
“Fuck you,” Bob growls before he sinks into an old dark green recliner that looks like it’s probably covered in various bodily fluids.
“You still drinking that rotgut whiskey?” Tom asks as he spies a bottle of Kentucky Gentleman on the coffee table from which Bob has just unscrewed the top.
“I’d drink fuckin’ paint thinner if it came in a glass bottle,” Bob says before taking a large gulp of the cheap liquor. “So, Wolfe. What do you really want? Because you and I both know this isn’t a social call.”
Tom shakes his head and smirks. “Bob, you’re right. I can’t bullshit you. I need some advice. Off the record of course.”
Bob rolls his eyes. “Since when does Tom Wolfe take anyone’s advice?”
“Look, this is a serious matter. And judging by the current state of your life,” Tom’s hand ghosts around the unkempt trailer. “You look like you could use a little excitement again.”
Bob eyes him in mild curiosity. “Get to the point, tubby.”
“Alright, fine. I need some help making someone go away. Permanently,” Tom admits.
Bob full on guffaws, the whiskey running down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand and leans back in the recliner, tears forming in his eyes from laughter.
“What’s so funny? That kind of shit is your speciality, right?” Tom asks, a dirty look on his face.
Once Bob’s stopped having a laughing seizure, he calms down. “I didn’t kill my wife. It was an accident, remember? Or at least that’s how you and Frank spun it for me. Thanks again for getting me out of such a sticky situation. Much obliged.”
“Whatever, Bob. I don’t give a shit that you whacked your wife over the head with a fucking hammer twenty times. You’ve gotta answer to God for that, not me.”
“It was late. I’d been working 36 straight hours and was sleep deprived. I can’t help that I mistook my old lady for a goddamn burglar after she snuck in from fucking her boy toy in the middle of the night,” Bob muses.
Yes, that’s the story that Frank and Tom cooked up on behalf of their client. Never mind the fact that Bob’s old lady, Mary, was cheating on him with Bob’s supervisor at the chemical plant and Bob had found out months before the incident. No—they painted the picture of a devoted and loving husband who worked long hours often so his wife could stay home and lead a life of leisure. That poor Bob had been working for three days straight and when he finally came home after midnight to get some shut eye? Well, his wife sneaking back in the house from yet another tryst just happened to be who Bob mistook for a thief and not his wife.
Life goes on. Well, not for Mary Vance. No, her brain was practically soup by the time the cops got there. Bob bashed her head in so violently he dislodged one of her eyeballs. It took the inept Northfield Police Department three whole days after the killing to find it underneath the couch.
Tom holds up his hands. “Save it, man. You gonna help me or not?”
Bob shrugs his shoulders. “Why should I help you? Sure, you helped me avoid jail. But you didn’t stop the bank from foreclosing on my home. You didn’t help me get another job after the chemical plant fucking fired me! As far as I’m concerned? You and your shady partner can go straight to hell! With Mary!”
“I’ll pay you,” Tom offers.
Bob perks up at the mention of money so he asks Tom to elaborate.
“I’ve got a bit of a delicate situation these days, too. One that I could use an expert eye on. See, there’s someone in this town who needs to be eighty sixed. Snuffed out. Whatever you murderous fucks call it,” Tom explains. “And I figured why not start with the one person I know in this whole shitty town? The one who killed not once, but twice. And got away with it both times.”
“That supposed to impress me?” Bob spits. “My first wife, Cindy? I didn’t fuckin’ kill her. That was vehicular manslaughter. I was driving drunk. Another accident. That was fifteen years ago. Long before I came here to rot.”
“Right. An accident,” Tom chirps. “Two dead women on your books, huh? What happened to for better or worse? In sickness and in health?”
“Fuck off and get out of my house,” Bob growls and then unmutes the television so the practiced moans of two women eating each other fills the air.
“You mean your trailer. Not your house. Trailer,” Tom retorts.
“Whatever, same fuckin’ thing.”
Tom chuckles. “Not really, Bob. I came prepared to offer you some money. Get you out of this hell hole, maybe enough to put a down payment on leasing one of those new condos downtown. But it looks like you’re thriving here so forget I mentioned it.”
Tom turns toward the door to leave, already knowing how this is going to play out next.
“Wait,” Bob calls out. “You mean Northfield Crossing? Across from the Mini Mart and the liquor store?”
Tom grins before turning around to face Bob. “Yeah, that’s the place. You wouldn’t have to walk far either to get all your needs met. Just hop right across the road on one leg for gas station burritos and a stash of booze. Real classy place too. Better than this dump.”
“Alright. What’s the story?” Bob asks, suddenly interested at the thought of being taken out of the poverty ridden trailer park and to the new and improved section eight housing of Northfield Crossing.
Tom rubs his hands together, already knowing he’s gonna be able to get rid of Christina Torres and her motorcycle gang hellion boyfriend if he gets in the way too. It’s time to use Bob Vance to his advantage.
….
Thursday, May 2nd, 1996
Frank told me I didn’t need to come back to work, but I insisted. Said he and Tom could handle things without me being their paralegal. After all, Frank said they hadn’t needed one until I came knocking on their door last December. In other words: ”We’re just fine, sweetheart. So hit the fucking bricks.
When I wasn’t at Fox Ridge, taking an inventory for the upcoming auction this weekend, I spent my days at Frank’s house, trying to add a few feminine touches here and there. Frank wasn’t having it though. He told me his house on Requiem Drive was his place, his bread and butter. Sure, he had let me shack up with him and I had my own bedroom. Even if more nights than not I wasn’t spending them there but in Frank’s bed. But make no mistake, the house was always going to be Frank’s.
I needed to do something to keep busy so I went back to work. It was the next best thing. The death of my uncle, aunt, drunken cousin and his wife were still fresh—not front and center but still there. Tom recently explained to me that grief was a very tricky thing. That it could sneak up on you out of nowhere. One minute you could be having the time of your life (or in Tom Wolfe’s mind: stoned and drunk or balls deep inside of barely legal poon) and the next minute, you’d be balling your eyes out just remembering the tiniest little detail of your dearly departed.
Of course I knew what grief was like. I’d lost my father ten years before. I still would tear up at times thinking of him. And damnit if I still didn’t think of my extended family. I wonder if they hated me like it seemed like they did before the end. When they all died so suddenly. Frank and I were in Vegas having the time of the our lives while Jerrod, Martha, Patrick and Caroline were going to sleep for the last time. I wonder what their final moments were like. Did they gasp for air? Did they feel anything? All of that had already been answered for me by the police as well as the coroner but I still thought about what their final moments must’ve felt like.
I came into the office early this morning, earlier than normal. 7:15am to be exact. Last night was Wednesday and Frank didn’t come home. I assumed he had been over at the Pink Room in Metuchen. After all, Wednesday was the night he did whatever the fuck he wanted. Even if Frank and I had been sleeping together, I’d be wrong to ask anything more of him. If he wanted to go get a lap dance or do God knows what else—that’s on him. Maybe my relationship (if you can even call it that) with Frank isn’t that much different than the one I had with Ed Collins. Ed went home to his wife most nights and Frank still chose to go to the Pink Room. Whatever.
I halfway expected my office to look like a bomb had went off in my absence, but it was surprisingly tidy. It didn’t smell halfway bad in there, either. A quick walk down the hallway revealed that Tom’s office still looked like an offshoot of the landfill and Frank’s office was still cold and in control—just like the man who owned it.
I sat at my desk and busied myself with some case work, reviewing files and making sure that bills were paid. The door swings open and I expect it to be frank since it’s just shy of 8:30, but it’s Tom. Upright and vertical before noon? Who would’ve thunk it!
“Yo,” Tom calls out as he slams the door behind him, juggling his briefcase and a couple coffees from Dunkin’ Donuts.
“Frankie said you were coming back today,” Tom pauses to hand me one of the coffees. “I don’t know how you take your coffee, but there’s two creams and two sugars in there. Figured you would need it for your first day back.”
I’m touched by Tom’s sudden generosity. Since he’s stopped supplying me with pills, I guess he figures coffee is the next best thing.
I smile at Tom and take a sip of the coffee. “You’re in early.”
Tom sighs. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to get a ride. Tiffany had to be to work at nine this morning over at the bank. So she dropped me off.”
Ah yes, Tiffany, Tom’s barely legal eighteen year old girlfriend. The one I first met in the Pink Room. The one he brought to my family’s funeral service dressed indecently and got drunk at the wake. He’s still seeing her apparently. And apparently Tiffany has a full time job at the Northfield Bank & Trust. Shocker.
“What happened, the Cadillac finally give up the ghost?” I ask Tom.
Tom rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I left it behind the bowling alley last night. I’ll have to see if I can limp it over to Moe’s Garage later.”
Tom’s Cadillac, the only constant in his life, has finally died. No amount of limping it anywhere is going to solve a damn thing. That thing should’ve been scrapped years ago. I know Tom’s a lawyer by trade and has his pharmaceutical hustle too and I know he’s got that big old Victorian house that Frank told me Tom’s old lady Maude left to him in her will. Surely the man could afford to buy a new car. Never mind that most of Tom’s clothing looks like it came off the rack at Goodwill, I’m sure he has to have some money from ripping people off.
“Why don’t you just go buy something new? More reliable? One with a set of airbags?” I ask him.
Tom shrugs. “I’ve never been the kind of man who needs fancy bells and whistles, Eden. I was doing just fine with the Cadillac. Maude left it to me. If I got rid of it, I feel like I would be betraying her.”
I snort laughter. “Pretty sure Maude’s more upset how you let it go to shit over the years. She’d probably want you to get something new.”
Tom holds up a hand. “Enough. I don’t have time to discuss this with you this morning. Some of us have real work to do.”
With that, Tom stomps on down the hallway and closes his door behind him. I roll my eyes and chuckle. Typical Tom Wolfe behavior.
The door opens again a short while later and Frank walks in, sex in a black suit with thin pinstripes, a crisp white button down and of course, those damn black cowboy boots he wears so well. He looks rested and refreshed, like he didn’t just spend all night throwing money at the Pink Room skanks.
“Eden,” Frank drawls. “Morning darlin’.” And with that, he plops a cupcake on my desk in a clear container. Chocolate with buttercream frosting and little pink and purple sprinkles on it. “Welcome back.”
“Where were you last night?” I stand up, smoothing the lapel of his suit jacket down and giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Frank being Frank, slaps my ass with one hand and the other finds the curve of my waist.
“It was Wednesday, darlin’. Had work to do. You know how it is.”
“You mean you were at the Pink Room again?”
“Look, just because you moved in with me doesn’t mean I need to entirely give up my ways, alright? Every now and then, I need to do man things.”
“Man things,” I echo. “You mean get lap dances from the strippers and blow jobs out back?”
Frank chuckles. “Who said anything about that? Maybe I was meeting a client. The lap dance came after. But don’t worry baby, I’ll be home tonight. And I’m all yours. Now give me some real sugar.”
So I kiss Frank, tongue and all. Like he isn’t my boss. Like we aren’t in his and Tom’s law office right now. Like I’m not his paralegal. Like I’m not pissed deep down that after having me at home, he’s still resorting to his old tactics.
“What’s my calendar look like today?” Frank asks me once he’s broken the kiss.
I’d already taken the liberty of checking his planner when I’d gotten into the office. Of course the master of control Frank already knows what’s on his schedule for the day, he just wants to know if I’m still efficient enough to my job.
“You have an appointment at 10 with Amber Redley. Why does that name sound familiar?” I ask.
“Amber is the chief of police’s daughter. Little miss muffet had a DUI a couple weeks ago out of town, courtesy of the New York State Police. Daddy hired me to get her off,” Frank explains. “What Daddy doesn’t know is that his bill’s gonna be paid in full this time. No more favors or giving me court side tickets to see the fucking Knicks.”
Northfield chief of police, Ken Redley, is someone who’s probably been on Frank and Tom’s payroll over the years. I met him a couple of times in court and he has the look of a man with a tomb full of secrets that need to be buried. Apparently Frank helped Amber out when she got a public intoxication charge back when she was 14 in the nearby town of Mayberry during a 4th of July celebration. Now she’s nineteen (still underaged) and apparently has graduated to drinking and driving. Frank’s the man that the Ken calls when he needs help and according to Frank, it’s often.
Ken isn’t the only public servant in debt to Frank. There’s also the honorable Judge Judd Merriman, a man who’s been on the bench since Gerald Ford was the president. Harvard educated, sits on the board at the Northfield Country Club, devoted father of three and one of the toughest judges in town. Back in 1989, a hooker came forward and said Merriman was the father of her four year old son. She was threatening to go public and wanted to file a paternity suit so Merriman would take responsibility and pay up for the illegitimate tot. Merriman couldn’t have that so he made a secret call to Frank.
Thanks to Frank, he made the woman and kid go away. Literally, according to Tom.
“It was the damndest thing,” Tom told me one day after I had my first run in with the judge during court one day and he wasn’t exactly easy to deal with. “Some hooker with big jugs was threatening to put their love child on blast. Merriman called up Frank like a bitch in the night, groveling and blubbering. Said he didn’t know who the woman was but I heard every word. Heard the fear in the prick’s voice. Three weeks later? House fire. Poof. Hooker and the bastard child gone. Faulty wiring, apparently. Frank and I called it divine intervention.”
Tom had explained it so casually that I didn’t think much of it. Just chalked it up to fate. It seemed like these fucked up cases were the ones he and Frank took time and time again. The ones nobody liked talking about. The same men they’d pass by on the street without getting a second glance from? They’d be calling Frank and Tom in the middle of the night to plead for their help. I don’t know how they did it. I probably don’t want to know. For whatever reason, I’m just here because if I’m not, I’ll probably go fucking crazy.
….
Later that evening, Frank and I are at home. Dinner was a frozen Tombstone pizza that I prepared, even threw some dried parsley flakes on it to give it that old world taste. Frank looked personally offended when I passed him a plate with two slices.
“What the fuck is this?” Frank asked suspiciously.
“Dinner.”
Frank held up a slice like it had insulted his late mother before he took a bite and chewed it. So what if the crust was a little undercooked? I never claimed to be Betty Crocker.
“Well sweetheart,” Frank said, spitting out his half chewed pizza into a napkin. “You’re might not cook with a shit, but you fuck like a dream. I’ll let it slide.”
And that’s how I ended up where I am now. On my knees on the living room floor while Frank’s sprawled out on the couch, beer in hand, thighs spread wide and shouting at the news while I’m sucking him off. Naked from the waist down.
I’m busy earning my keep. Frank said it’s the least I could do since I can’t cook. And the twisted thing? I don’t even mind. I’m like a fucked up 1996 version of June Cleaver, except I don’t tell Frank to take it easy on the beaver like June told Ward. No, Frank’s always going to get his, no matter what. Maybe I like being needed. Maybe I like knowing I can still control a man with my mouth and tongue alone. The beaver between my thighs? Well that’s just the cherry on top.
”—And in the Nation’s Capital today, President Clinton faced new scrutiny over—“
“That greasy Arkansas hillbilly is a lying sack of shit!” Frank barks out. “Everyone knows Hillary’s running the god damn White House!”
I hum around him in mild disapproval, which only makes him groan and look down at me with a smug smile.
“Jesus Christ, sweetheart. You’re killing me,” he growls, grabbing my hair and lightly tugging it, the other hand wrapped around a bottle of Budweiser.
The female news anchor in the background keeps on talking and Frank keeps on barking out, as if the woman can hear him. Interest rates, NATO, even a car bombing in Beirut—Frank weighs in, giving his own color commentary.
“Oh come on! I say kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out!” Frank hollers.
I pull back for a second, my hand still wrapped firmly around Frank’s tank and look up at him through my mascara coated lashes.
“Go on, darlin’. Daddy’s getting close.”
Now I take my hand off his cock and scowl at him.
“I thought I told you not to say that,” I grumble. “I don’t like hearing that word.”
Frank takes a swig of his beer, rolling his eyes. “Sweetheart, it’s a term of endearment. And we all know you’ve got daddy issues out the ass, ok?”
“That’s the point, Frank. I only called one man Daddy and that was my own dad.”
“This shit again,” Frank mutters in annoyance. “We were having a great time. Then you go and get your little thong into a twist over a pet name! Christ! Even Madison doesn’t get this uptight.”
I scoff at him. “Madison, your little coed friend who’s been using you to fund her so called college tuition? Be my guest, Griffith. Ride over to Metuchen and get a blow job from her.”
I rise from my knees, leaving Frank there with a hard on and a scowl.
“Relax, Eden. No need to bring up the old flame. Why would I need her when I’ve got you? Hmmm?” With that, Frank reaches out and grabs me with one hand, yanking me down onto the couch.
“I know what it is,” Frank begins as he gets off the couch and pulls his boxers and pants back up before he’s taking the place I had just taken on the living room floor on his knees. “You need to be sucked off too, don’t you, baby? That’s why you’re so uptight, isn’t it? My girl needs her pretty pussy tended to properly.”
Frank’s pulling my sleep shorts and panties down with speed. Maybe Frank’s right. Perhaps he knows best after all. I spread my legs and Frank winks at me before he’s placing each one on either side of his head on his shoulders. He brushes his fingers across my clit and wiggles his eyebrows when he realizes I’m soaked.
“Like a goddamn geyser already,” Frank whispers before he’s kissing my inner thighs.
And then I nearly see sounds and hear colors when his tongue darts across my folds and swirls around my clit. Frank’s a greasy lawyer but also a man of great oral skills. He has the gift of gab to go along with a golden tongue. We’ve fucked all over his house, even the office too. That office was christened the other day when Tom went to lunch with a client, some creepy guy who walked with a cane and reeked of Pall Mall cigarettes and cheap liquor. Someone Tom called Bob. Frank later said he was an old client of his and Tom’s but I didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t need to when Frank had me bent over his desk, pounding into me relentlessly.
Frank practically slurps at my pussy now and I wrap my legs around his shoulders and push his head further into me. Frank likes it when I do this because he always moans a little louder. He’d never admit it though. God no, he’s got too much pride for that.
Afterwards, I’m lying boneless and limp on the couch and Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. And then the doorbell rings.
“For fuck’s sake,” Frank mutters and climbs to his feet. The doorbell rings again.
I follow Frank’s lead and put my own underwear and sleep shorts back on, then drape the throw blanket that’s normally on the back of the couch across my lap.
“Frankie!” Tom’s voice booms out. I take a sip of the beer that Frank had left on the end table and pretend to be engrossed in the news and not look like a woman who’s just had her cunt wrecked.
Frank walks back into the living room with Tom in tow and shoots me a knowing look.
“What’s going on gang?” Tom asks as he eyes me, then Frank. He doesn’t wait for an invitation, he just plops down on the couch next to me.
I offer Tom a small smile. “Hi Tom.”
“Edie, how are you? It’s been a while,”
Tom asks. He’s recently taken to calling me Edie, why I don’t know.
“Fine, Tom. We saw each other two hours ago at the office, remember?”
Tom studies me like he doesn’t recall seeing me in the office at all today. I guess the booze and drugs have finally started to kill off his remaining brain cells.
“Oh…right. Yeah,” Tom says and clears his throat. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I need to ask you.”
Frank sits in the recliner and looks from me to Tom.
“What do you need?”
“Well, uh. This is kinda hard to talk about, but I need a car. You know what happened with the Caddy, it’s fucked beyond repair. Moe said it’s done for. And I was wondering if…” Tom’s voice trails off when he sees Frank shooting daggers at him.
“Wondering what?” Frank hisses, one eyebrow raised.
“Shit, alright. Sorry. What I mean to say is, do you think maybe I could get my hands on Patrick’s old Benz? I mean, I’ll give you Kelley Blue Book value for it, ya know?”
Frank sighs loudly, already annoyed. “Jesus, Tommy. Asking Eden if she can spare her late cousin’s car? That’s pretty tasteless, don’t you think?”
“Well it’s not like Patrick’s around to take an issue with it,” Tom huffs. “I mean, it’s just collecting dust. God knows Pat didn’t really take care of it when he was still alive. I figured it would be easier to sell it to me instead of one of those out of town fucks showing up to the auction this weekend who want to lowball you.”
I roll my eyes. Classic Tom Wolfe move. But then again, maybe Tom’s right. I hadn’t even thought about getting rid of any of the vehicles left behind by my family. My uncle’s 1991 Range Rover, my aunt’s 1992 Saab, even Caroline’s 1993 Mercedes coupe. The auctioneer said I could add them to the sale last minute but they would take their cut of the fees for the auction house. Or I could just sell them outright to a private party since they all have clean titles.
“Maybe,” I tell Tom. “Let me think it over.”
Tom smiles and pats my lap over top of the blanket. “You’d be doing me a real solid, Edie. I’d take real good care of it. No hotboxing, no driving under the influence either.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “That’ll be the fucking day.”
Tom looks over at Frank. “What’s that, Frank?”
“Nothing. Is that all you came here for, to leech off of the Tyler estate or did you actually need something?” Frank says, standing up, meaning it’s Tom’s cue to stand up and leave too.
Tom climbs off the couch and reaches down and pats my shoulder. “Thanks, lady. See ya around.”
Frank leads him out of the house while I turn my attention back to the evening news. Outside the house and in the privacy of the driveway, Frank scowls at Tom and plants his hands on his hips.
“Seriously? You came over here to ask Eden if you could buy Patrick’s busted up Benz?”
Tom shrugs his shoulders. “What’s the big deal? I need a new ride. And you told me not to go around town flashing the cash you paid me to help snuff ‘em out! It’s not like I can drive down to the Mercedes dealer and get a brand new one. Noooo. Frankie would be real pissed about that.”
“God damnit, don’t talk about me in the third person,” Frank groans. “Look. I don’t give a fuck who Eden sells that heap of scrap to. But it won’t look right, Tom. Looks suspicious. We don’t need to draw attention to ourselves.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Yeah, maybe you should take some of your own advice. It doesn’t look right that you’ve been fucking Jerrod’s niece either, but here we are. Who gives a fuck anyway? Nobody around here cares. I see an opportunity, I’m going to take it. You know that about me old pal.”
Frank wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
Tom unlocks his girlfriend Tiffany’s car, the one he’s currently borrowing for the time being. He opens the door to the small Mazda sedan and leans against it.
“So, you taken care of the situation with the Mexican, yet?”
“Christina Torres, the Puerto Rican. Yeah, it’s gonna be handled. Any day now. Don’t worry about it,” Frank responds.
“Sure. Whatever you say, boss,” Tom says before he slips inside the car and says goodbye to Frank.
Tom is in no rush to return home back to his decaying Victorian house where Tiffany is currently watching reruns of Mama’s Family and painting her toenails with Revlon nail polish. In one hand is the polish applicator, in the other is a bottle of Boone’s Farm. She’s got a good buzz going tonight in the form of the cheap booze and the couple of Xanax she downed earlier.
Instead, Tom swings by the predetermined meeting spot to pick up his companion for the night. No, it’s not a woman but a man. And it certainly ain’t for sexual reasons. Tom pulls up in front of the laundromat in town where Bob Vance is already waiting for him, his cane in one hand, a bottle of more rotgut whiskey in the other. Bob limps into the car with his cane, narrowly missing the side of Tom’s face with it before tossing it in the backseat.
“Jesus, Bob. Trying to take my head off?” Tom asks sardonically before pulling back out onto the street and making his way out of Northfield.
“Would you even notice?” Bob retorts and lights up a cigarette.
Tom looks over at Bob and sighs deeply. Bob is his last hope to make this little hiccup with Christina Torres go away once and for all. Tom knew Frank wasn’t going to take care of anything with the Mexican—excuse me—Puerto Rican housekeeper with the nice ass. No, Tom knows Frank is more worried about getting some ass from Eden and more importantly, getting his hands on Fox Ridge. Once again, Tom will need to step up to the plate and handle things.
The men ride in silence, the only sound coming from the cassette deck in Tiffany’s Mazda. Tom knew his girlfriend had shit taste in music—Boyz II Men, Janet Jackson and Red Hot Chili Peppers—so he took the liberty of grabbing a handful of cassette tapes out of the old Cadillac before he parted ways with it earlier in the day. The Steve Miller Band crackles “Take The Money And Run” on the cheap factory installed stereo.
Go on, take the money and run…
“So, you wanna do this tonight, huh?” Bob asks after he’s lit up a cigarette.
“Apparently,” Tom says sarcastically, speeding down the highway towards the nearby town of Metuchen. “That was the whole point of that Kentucky Fried Chicken lunch I bought you earlier. I told you this was going down tonight.”
“And have you thought to do your research beforehand or are we just going into this blindly in usual Tom Wolfe fashion?” Bob asks in a snide tone.
Tom glares over at his former client and rolls his eyes. “Look, Bobby. This shit should be a walk in the park for you. A robbery gone wrong. Make it look like some druggie came by the apartment to rob Darryl King’s stash when he wasn’t home but ended up killing his girlfriend instead. What’s there to research?”
Bob takes a puff of his cigarette and exhales it in Tom’s direction. “You really are a fuckin’ idiot. That’s why I came prepared.” With that, Bob opens up his tan Members Only jacket to reveal a holstered sidearm, a .44 magnum Smith and Wesson revolver. Real Dirty Harry shit going on here.
“The .44 magnum,” Bob boasts as he taps at it with his smoking hand. “The most powerful handgun in the world.”
“What are you auditioning for the white trash revival of police inspector Harry fucking Callahan now?” Tom snorts laughter.
Bob however isn’t laughing. “You dumb fuck, you’re the one that suggested we use a goddamn kitchen knife! You don’t bring a knife to a gun fight! You think this road warrior is gonna square off with a knife? Get real, fatty.”
Tom thinks back to their KFC lunch date earlier in the day. Bob complained the entire car ride over and once inside the restaurant. Tom bought him an 8-piece bucket meal with mashed potatoes with extra gravy and coleslaw. The two men sat in a back booth near the restrooms and conspired over the future events of the evening. They cooked up their plan of attack.
“What if this bitch is smarter than you say she is?” Bob asked as he tore into an extra crispy drumstick.
Tom waved him off lazily. “Trust me, she was a fucking housekeeper. Smart people don’t clean up rich people’s shit. Girl’s as dumb as a box of rocks. Has a nice tush on her though.”
Tom giggled at his own win after that while Bob remained unamused. “Why are you even tangled up in this anyway? What the hell does this housekeeper and her money have to do with you?”
Tom took a hefty swig of his flat tasting Pepsi Cola, buying a few seconds to cook up the lie. “Because, Frank asked me to handle it.”
Bob cackled throaty and licked the chicken grease off of his fingers before dropping what was left of the drumstick carcass onto the fast food plastic tray on the table below.
“Since when does King Shit ask you to handle anything?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Frank trusts me, Bobby. We’re partners, remember? Brothers, even. He knows I can handle it.”
“Right,” Bob drawled sarcastically. “Sounds just like Frank Griffith. Asking a blithering idiot to handle such an important task. A real brilliant strategy.”
The dangerous duo spend the rest of their ride to Metuchen with periodic squawking and arguing. Tom wasn’t a blithering idiot, he’d even called in a favor to his client Mike Deal to scope out Darryl King’s apartment. You see, Mikey’s stepmom didn’t pay Mike’s half of the attorney retainer like she and Tom previously worked out. A couple of blow jobs behind the bowling alley didn’t settle the bill. Mikey’s skanky stepmom wasn’t willing to put as much as she appeared that day in court when Tom saved her thieving stepson from going to jail.
Mike reported back to Tom that indeed one Christina Torres was living in Metuchen in her boyfriend’s shoddy apartment and that Darryl and the rest of the Sons of Disorder ran an illegal poker game on Thursday nights well past midnight in the basement of The Pink Room. The Pink Room was three miles down the road from where Darryl lived and Tom figured that would buy him and Bob enough time to take Christina out and hopefully get the cash Frank wrongfully gave her as part of her severance package before the two hit the trail back to Northfield. As for the pitbull Remy? She hangs out full time at the Sons of Disorder’s headquarters, a rundown mechanic shop out by the train tracks, where she stays on guard.
The plan was simple. A couple of druggies looking for money decide to rob Darryl’s apartment knowing he’s got a stash of cash and hopefully some smack. However, the druggies didn’t anticipate the girlfriend being home so she is shot before they make off with the cash. Tom had even brought some of his infamous stepped on coke with him to plant in the apartment, just to drive the point home that Darryl is not an upstanding citizen and would take the fall for his girlfriend’s murder while the mystery suspects get away.
Tom didn’t need to do a full on stakeout and run reconnaissance on Darryl’s apartment. He knew enough and that’s why he brought Bob, because the man had no conscience and didn’t mind killing people. Besides, Bob Vance owed Tom for life as far as he was concerned. Tom and Frank saved the prick from life imprisonment. The money for the down payment on a fresh start at Northfield Crossing? Well that would come from the severance package Christina was paid. Tom didn’t know Christina but knew she wouldn’t be stupid enough to put it all in the bank. After all, she’s stupid enough to link up with a known rebel so Tom can’t imagine she would deposit all of that cash Frank made sure she got. No, she had to have some of it in that apartment somewhere.
They pull up across the street from where Darryl’s apartment is in Metuchen. The apartment isn’t a building but one of those old houses that’s been converted into apartments. Darryl lives upstairs in the sole apartment while the other two apartments are downstairs. Darryl even has a rear entrance with steps out back so Tom and Bob don’t have to worry about going in through the front and risking being seen by the two downstairs occupants should they be around. The house is situated in between a secured lot where some big rigs are parked and a barely breathing convenience store that makes the Mini Mart in Northfield look like the goddamn Taj Mahal.
“I thought that dump was closed,” Bob points toward the direction of the convenience store.
Tom looks at the flickering neon OPEN sign and the bars on the windows. “Who gives a shit, we’re going in through the back anyway.”
Tom reaches into the backseat and grabs a brown paper bag and tosses a black object in Bob’s direction and grabs the other identical object for himself. It’s a skullcap, really adding to the burglar aesthetic with holes that Tom took the time to cut out earlier for the eyes and mouth. Bob shakes his head in annoyance and digs into the pocket of his jacket, pulling up a tattered pair of women’s nylons. As Tom adjusts the skullcap on his strawberry blonde head and pulls it completely down, Bob presses the nylon stockings to his nose and inhales deeply.
“I can still smell her, you know?” Bob declares. “Might as well put these fucking things to good use.”
Tom watches in mild amusement as Bob slides the women’s pantyhose down his face, smushing his nose and really making him look even more deranged than usual.
“Pantyhose? Are you fucking kidding me?” Tom howls laughter.
“Shut the fuck up and let’s do this,” Bob grumbles through the material the stockings. He grabs his cane from the backseat and Tom starts to protest.
“No! Hell no! You are not bringing that fucking thing!” He gestures towards the cane.
“How the hell else am I supposed to get around dummy?” Bob asks. “I ain’t exactly a marathon man and neither is your lard ass!”
“For fucks sake,” Tom mumbles and cuts the engine off, stuffing the keys in his pocket, right next to the baggie of “cocaine” he’s going to plant in the apartment. And of course the butcher knife he swiped earlier from his house, some relic Maude had left behind. Tom doesn’t care what Bob says, he’s absolutely going to bring his knife. Better to be safe than sorry. Not only that, but Tom doesn’t like guns. Hasn’t liked them since his father ended his life with one. Guns are for suckers and cowards and Tom Wolfe is neither.
The tempestuous tandem make their way out of the car, Tom running across the street in stealth mode while Bob limps behind him with his cane and bum leg, the pantyhose on his head making him look absolutely insane. Howell Street in Metuchen is quiet tonight, save for the old man working behind the counter at the rundown convenience store next door. He’s listening to the radio, not paying attention to the closed circuit cameras on the small television behind the counter as two grainy looking goons dash across the street.
Tom makes his way to the backyard and opens the privacy fence and sees the rickety wooden steps straight ahead. A sole nearby street light burns, revealing a pile of trash bags out back overflowing from a few metal garbage cans. There’s a few plastic lawn chairs scattered around the yard and what looks like a makeshift fire pit with empty beer cans littered throughout. A real enticing looking place to kick your feet up at the end of the day.
Bob brings up the rear, slamming the fence behind him with a loud BANG! and Tom turns around to press his finger to his lips in a hushing motion.
“Be quiet! Let’s go!” Tom commands as he makes his way up the steps to the small porch on the second floor where the rear door is into Darryl’s dive. He reaches the porch and peers into the sole window next to the back door, a kitchen window with raggedy yellow curtains hanging up.
Tom can see directly into the apartment and see and hear the television blaring while Christina is sprawled out on the couch, filling her nails, her hair in curlers. Bob appears behind him, peering over his shoulder to look into the apartment.
“What a dump,” Bob says into Tom’s ear, his sour breath hot on Tom’s neck. Tom swats at Bob like he’s an annoying mosquito.
“Looks like the cunt is awake. I guess we’ll just have to go in, guns blazing,” Bob whispers and unholsters his revolver. He shuffles towards the back door and holds the screen door open.
The door is solid, no glass window on it to break in and open from the inside if it’s locked. So the door will have to be kicked open. Bob carefully wiggles the doorknob to confirm it is indeed locked.
Bob jerks his neck in the direction of the door. “Alright chump, it’s your time to shine.”
“What do you mean ‘my time to shine’? I can’t pick a lock, that’s your department.”
“Pick a lock? I never claimed to be a locksmith, dumbass! Kick the fuckin’ door in! It ain’t like I can’t do it!” He taps at his battered knee with the cane.
Tom isn’t exactly one for feats of strength, that’s for sure. Drinking, drugging, dealing, having sex on the rare occasions when he can get it up, charming the hearts of a jury in a defense trial, talking his way out of sticky situations, putting up with Frank’s bullshit—that’s Tom’s skill set. Not breaking doors down like some thug. Maybe Tommy Boy didn’t think this thing through but whatever, when in Rome, or when in Metuchen, that is…
“Kick as hard as you can, you don’t wanna be out here kicking it over and over so the bitch inside can escape out the front or worse, grab a gun and do us in!”
Real words of wisdom, dipshit Tom thinks to himself.
So Tom goes to that place he goes to sometimes, that place in the far corner of his brain when he harkens back to the young, hungry and determined hustler living on Long Island. He’d steal cigarettes and sell them to his underaged classmates, whatever he could get his hands on to make a quick buck since he was the man of the house after his father swallowed a bullet.
Tom recalls his late mother’s voice in his head:
”This world’s full of takers and quittas and I wont have my boy being a quitta.”
“Yes, Mommie Dearest,” Tom whispers in the present day to his mother as if were still alive and right there next to him like some fucked up hybrid of the silver screen starlet Joan Crawford and Mrs. Voorhees from the Friday the 13th film franchise.
With that, Tom raises his loafered foot and lands a square kick in the center of the door. The door gives way instantaneously, the cheap rusted hinges creaking. Inside, Christina’s head is on a swivel and the no nonsense young woman jerks her head in the direction of the back door which hangs ajar and she sees two male figures.
“What the FUCK?!” Christina’s voice booms over the already loud volume of the television. The nail file in her hand drops and skitters across the dingy, moss green carpet.
“Where’s the money bitch?” Bob hollers, shuffling across the kitchen with lightning fast speed for a man with a bum leg and a cane.
Meanwhile, Tom clutches the knife inside his pocket by the wooden handle and tries to summon that courage up his mother once instilled in him. It seems Bob is in the mood to strong arm Christina so Tom figures now is the time to start to ransack the apartment and find the money. He starts jerking kitchen drawers and cabinets open like a fool, silverware clattering to the ground, tossing cheap plastic cups onto the linoleum kitchen floor.
Christina backs up into a corner, telling Bob she doesn’t know the money he’s asking about over and over. Bob’s swatting at her legs with his cane and Tom opens the refrigerator to see if the money is kept inside of there. So what, he saw it in a movie once.
“What money? I don’t have any fucking money!” Christina screams. “You better get the fuck out of here before my man comes back!”
“Ya lying bitch!” Bob barks out.
Tom tears into the living room, pulling up couch cushions with reckless abandon, damned and determined to find the money that may or may not be in the apartment. He makes his way from room to room, while Bob barely contains Christina in the corner of the living room. Out of breath and completely winded, Tom emerges from the solo bedroom of the apartment empty handed.
“Where’s the fucking money?” Tom hollers as he stumbles into the living room, nearly tripping over the couch cushion he’d throw onto the floor just minutes before.
“I told you, I don’t have any money! Don’t you know who my boyfriend is? He’ll kill both of you fuckin’ putas when he gets back!” Christina yells the launches into a full on curse laden Spanish diatribe.
“What language is this broad speaking anyway?” Bob turns his attention to Tom. “Vietnamese?”
Tom rolls his eyes. “She’s speaking Spanish, you idiot. She’s from Mexico.”
“I’m from Puerto Rico you piece of shit!” Christina pipes up. “Fuckin’ dumbass white boy!”
Tom approaches the corner where Bob is surprisingly doing a bang up job of keeping Christina at bay, his revolver trained on her.
“Look, enough’s enough Rosie Perez. We came here for the money. You know, the money you got from your former employer as severance pay. Just tell us where it is. We don’t want any trouble,” Tom says.
Christina narrows her brown eyes at the pudgy man with the black skullcap concealing most of his face. That voice though, she’s heard it before. She even thinks she recognizes the squatty stature of the man, the bit of flushed red skin that peeks out from behind the holes of the mask.
“Wait a minute,” Christina says, snapping her fingers together. “I know you. You’re that crooked lawyer, the one that Eden works for.”
“Bullshit,” Tom huffs. “I’m just a regular guy.”
“Yeah, bitch, that money. The one you’ve been bragging about all over town,” Bob interjects for reinforcement, knowing that this tough-as-nails chick isn’t as dumb as Tom previously made her out to be. “We know you’ve got it. The jig is up. So stop wasting our time and give it to us. Or else you’ll be joining those wine-o fucks you used to work for in the afterlife.”
“Fuck you, cochino!” Christina spits, arms flailing. “You think you can come in here and scare me? I ain’t scared of you white bread motherfuckers!”
With that, Christina lunges but Bob’s faster, even with one functioning leg.
WHACK!
The butt of the revolver cracks against her temple with a sick thud. She lets out a bark of pain and drops to her knees like a prizefighter caught on the chin. Her curlers go skittering across the floor like landmines.
“Jesus, Bob!” Tom shouts, half-impressed, half-horrified. “Was that really necessary?”
Bob doesn’t even blink. “What? You want her to shank us with a nail file?”
Christina groans, one hand pressed to the growing knot on her temple. “You bastards!”
“Shut up,” Bob says, waving the gun under her nose. “Now listen, you’re gonna get up nice and slow, and you’re gonna take us to the money. Or I’ll give you a matching dent on the other side of that thick skull.”
“Fuck you,” she growls.
“Fine.” Bob cocks the hammer. The sound alone could stop a heart.
Christina breathes heavily. Wipes blood from her temple. Glares up at them both like she’s memorizing their faces for the ghost she’s gonna haunt.
Then, finally: “Bathroom.”
Tom perks up. “Really?”
“Yeah, pendejo! What’s left of it anyway,” she mutters as she struggles to her feet. “Y’all really think I’m that fuckin’ stupid? You think I just left it in a shoebox under the bed? You think you’re the first scumbags to come knockin’ since I got that payout?”
“Where?” Bob barks.
“In the light,” she grumbles. “Above the sink. Behind the fuckin’ fixture. Darryl showed me how to pop it off when I moved in. Thought I was gonna hide tampons in there. Surprise, it’s money now.”
Tom follows her down the short hallway to the dingy pink-tiled bathroom. The mirror is cracked with toothpaste and water stains clinging to the surface. There’s a rust ring in the tub that could be its own species. Christina points a trembling dark purple manicured finger at the dusty overhead sconce above the medicine cabinet.
“There. Take it down and see for yourself, Dumb and Dumber.”
Bob keeps the revolver trained on her while Tom climbs onto the toilet lid, groaning with effort. He unscrews the brittle plastic cover, and sure enough—there it is.
A sandwich baggie. Crammed with hundreds. Not neat stacks, just bills stuffed like a junk drawer.
Tom clambers down and starts counting, his fingers greasy with sweat and light bulb dust. “Ten grand! That’s it? Where’s the rest?”
Christina scoffs. “You try living in this shithole without working and see how far that money goes! You think I spent it all on manicures and malt liquor? I had bills to pay, puta, money to send to my family!”
“Fuck!” Tom groans. “This was supposed to be my parachute!”
“Well, boo-fuckin’-hoo!” Christina hisses. “Go cry into your coke stash.”
Bob sighs. “I’ve had just about enough of this loudmouth.”
“You always this brave with a gun in your hand, Scarface?” Christina taunts, turning toward him with a wicked grin. “You ain’t shit. Limpin’ in here like Clint Eastwood’s alcoholic uncle. Ain’t nobody scared of you.”
“I’m not trying to scare you,” Bob mutters, stepping forward. “I’m trying to shut you up.”
WHAM! WHAM!
The revolver comes down again and again, this time across her forehead. Christina drops like a sack of bricks, unconscious before she hits the floor. Her body slumps against the wall, blood already blooming from the gash in her forehead.
Tom drops the bag full of money and drops to one knee, cupping Christina’s chin in his fat hand. Blood flows freely from the large wound in her forehead down the front of her oversized Garfield sleep shirt. “Damnit, Bob! You killed her!”
“No shit,” Bob huffs. “That was the point, wasn’t it Wolfe? Don’t tell me all of a sudden you’ve developed a conscious and you’re fuckin’ Mother Cabrini?”
“Oh fuck! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Tom mutters before stumbling to his feet, grabbing the bag of money. “We gotta get outta here!”
Bob pauses to light a cigarette before he holsters his .44 magnum back. “I say we tear this place up a bit and find the rest of the stash. The bitch was bluffing, I know it. No way she pissed through all of that money. Come on tubby, chop chop.”
Tom and Bob spend the next minute or two arguing, completely unaware of the low rumble of a Harley Davidson hog pulling up on the street below. They don’t hear the thud of combat boots coming up the staircase. They certainly don’t hear the key jiggling in the lock of the front door.
“Hey babe,” Darryl King’s voice booms out and he swaggers in, a six pack of Coors Light cans tucked under his arm. “Card game ended early. Cleaned those fucks out tonight. Got us some extra—“
Tom and Bob look up just in time to see Darryl king kicking the door closed with one foot, his unmistakably tall frame filling up the small apartment. He looks around the state of disarray of his humble home and then looks to where the men are standing in the small hallway just outside the bathroom door.
“What the fuck? Who the fuck are you?” Darryl drops the pack of beer and the cans fall to the floor.
Darryl lunges, crossing the room in a few quick strides but it’s no use. Bob grabs ahold of his revolver and steps forward, firing off a single shot that lands right between Darryl’s bloodshot brown eyes. The six foot four motorcycle menace drops to his knees and lands with a sickening thud on the dingy avocado green carpet.
“Oh shit!” Tom hollers. “Is he dead?”
Bob limps over to where Darryl now lies on the carpet, an exit wound the size of Texas out of the back of his now blood matted brown hair. Bits of skull and brain linger on the refrigerator door and kitchen cabinets behind him.
“Yeah, Tommy. Safe to say this one’s checked out. Better make sure that bitch in the bathroom’s on the way out too,” Bob says nonchalantly, giving Darryl’s shoulder a kick to confirm that he is absolutely without a doubt deceased.
Tom leans against the wall and rips his stocking cap off, tossing it to the side. Bob limps past him, whacking at his knee with his cane on the way into the bathroom. The sound of a solo gunshot rings out, causing Tom to close his eyes and bite his lip. He jams his fingers into his ears to block out the sound of the shot echoing through the apartment.
“Alright, took care of the motormouth,”
Bob says coolly as he strides out of the bathroom.
Downstairs, he can hear a baby crying followed by a muffled voice shouting from downstairs.
“Hey Darryl! What the fuck’s going on up there? I’m trying to put little Bruce to sleep!” It’s Darryl’s downstairs neighbor, Bruce Kearns—a registered sex offender who unfortunately has recently fathered a child with his dimwitted girlfriend.
“Sssh,” Bob puts a wrinkled finger to his lips. “Fuck looking for the money. Let’s go. Back door. Now.”
Tom doesn’t remember leaving the apartment, he doesn’t even remember dropping the bag of “cocaine” on the hallway floor. Bob practically dragged him out of there, the bag of cash stuffed into the pocket of his jacket as the two misfits made their way down the backstairs and across the road to the Mazda. Bob realized Tom was too shook up to even drive so he practically threw Tom into the passenger seat, huffing and cussing all the way until he was in the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. He throws the engine into drive and screeches off into the night, Steve Miller still singing.
”They got the money, hey. You know they got away. They headed down south and they’re still runnin’ today.”
By the time they are well outside of Metuchen town limits and headed back to Northfield, Tom realizes the gravity of what just transpired a short while before. Two more casualties to add to this mix.
“Got any Phil Collins in here?” Bob yells after taking the Steve Miller Band cassette tape out of the stereo and tossing it onto Tom’s lap. Now is the time he decides to take off his makeshift pantyhose disguise and toss it out the open car window.
“Huh? Who?” Tom asks absentmindedly, his eyes glazed over.
“Phil Collins, dip shit. I’m in the mood for something a little more upbeat. Sussudio ? No Jacket Required? If I wanted to listen to this seventies shit, I’d still be married to Mary’s sorry ass.”
“This is my girlfriend’s car,” Tom responds quietly, his mind still in a haze.
“Of course. Thirty something years old and you don’t even own a car. Fucking degenerate,” Bob balks, nearly swerving the Mazda into the opposite lane, missing a Honda Civic hatchback by the skin of his nicotine stained teeth. He reaches into the center console digging for something else to listen to.
It’s a mixed tape, one Tiffany took the liberty of recording over the course of a couple of boring afternoons listening to WKL 92.1 Today’s Hits radio out of Northfield. “I’m Too Sexy“by Right Said Fred cuts through the din and Bob raises one eyebrow.
“Now, that’s more like it,” Bob laughs, his lungs rattling and wheezing as he stomps on the gas pedal of the little Mazda, the transmission kicking into the next gear.
Tom, however isn’t laughing. He’s gonna have to go home and get a clear head before he calls Frank for help. First he’ll need to probably get acquainted with a needle and some heroin to take the edge off. He’ll deal with Frank later. Maybe he won’t deal with him at all. Maybe this problem will sort itself out.
Chapter 17: Money Changes Everything
Summary:
We meet Metuchen Police Detective Steve Quinn who’s trying to solve the murder in his town. He has a stinking suspicion our two lawyers might be involved. Meanwhile back in Northfield, Eden tries to hold it together during the estate sale and auction of Fox Ridge and Tom and Frank are their usual selves. Frank also has a flashback to his first and second failed marriages in this chapter.
Notes:
Ok so if you like The Sopranos as much as I do, you’ll recognize the town of Metuchen. I thought that was a funny ass name for a town so that’s why I put it in this story. It’s actually a real town in New Jersey but in the purpose of my story it’s a fictional town located in New York. Anyway, Detective Quinn is based on John Heard’s cop character Vin Makazian from The Sopranos.
Chapter Text
Friday, May 3rd, 1996
Detective Steven “Steve” Quinn is slouched at his desk, blue eyes clouded over as he fidgets with his cheaply made paisley print tie. All around him, Metuchen’s finest are hard at work. The sound of ringing phones, shouting, a fax machine that keeps registering a busy signal, the Xerox copier in the corner working overtime, even the coffee pot brewing in the background—those are the noises that fill the air of the Metuchen Police Department on this early Friday morning.
It’s too early for the detective, who is still halfway hung over from the illegal card game he’d been an attendee of the evening before in the basement of The Pink Room. Long before Quinn became a crooked cop, he was a decent one, or about as decent as one could be. He was married and had a wife and a couple of kids. But Quinn enjoyed the attention that the desperate women of Metuchen gave him—the badge bunnies he encountered on a daily basis, not too mention the bimbos who greased the poles at The Pink Room. The endless casseroles his wife plied the family with for dinner every night and arguing over their shared Visa card ended up being too much for him. So he sought solace with the women he would flash his badge at. After one two many extramarital tangoes, Mrs. Steven Quinn cut him loose and took off to nearby Medford with their son and daughter.
He never thought she’d actually do it but in the end, she won full custody. And of course Steve had less than stellar legal representation in the form of Griffith and Wolfe. Frank represented him through the divorce and custody process. Frank talked him into giving up his parental rights, telling the down on his luck cop that ”Families are for suckers. That broad and brats are just gonna get in the way. Go live your life.” Classic Frank Griffith words of wisdom. And for a while, he did.
At first flying solo didn’t bother the newly single cop. Maybe Frank was onto something after all. But there were only so many women he could bed and only so many vices he could accumulate. Gambling and drinking were front and center. Everything else was an afterthought. Pretty soon Quinn found out that trying to make it on his own without the added income of his former wife’s teacher salary on his lousy police officer salary wasn’t enough. So he turned to other activities to supplement his income. He linked up with known drug dealers in Metuchen and Northfield, turning a blind eye to their activities as long as they cut him a piece of the pie. But if someone slighted him? That was it. Quinn would go in with the rest of the police department’s drug task force and bust them.
Of course because of that, he made enemies along the way and he’d found himself needing some sort of protection. Enter his alliance with the Sons of Disorder. They weren’t exactly cop friendly but Quinn wasn’t exactly a friendly cop. Birds of a feather flock together. So Quinn tuned his radar to other crimes and criminals in Metuchen while the motorcycle gang pretty much ran unchecked. If some rookie cop or some nosey prick on the force messed with the gang too much, Quinn would make the charges go away. He didn’t exactly like the Sons and the feeling was mutual, but it was more of a mutually beneficial business relationship than anything else.
But nothing prepared Quinn for the mess he had on his hands just hours ago, shortly after midnight. The gang’s sergeant at arms, Darryl King, gunned down in his shoddy apartment alongside his girlfriend, Christina Torres. The call had come into the private line of The Pink Room before Quinn was even paged by dispatch to head out to the apartment house on Howell Street.
The motorcycle club’s president demanded answers and fast. Wanted to know what the fuck had happened to his trusted gang member and his old lady. Told Quinn to get to the bottom of it or blood would be spilled, possibly even his. It was bad enough Quinn had his lieutenant and the county attorney breathing down his to solve the fresh crime. Now he had a whole slew of delinquent bikers on his ass.
To the untrained eye, the crime scene was simple. A simple breaking and entering when the suspect(s) encountered Christina, attacked her and then were surprised by Darryl coming home. Two dead bodies, a ransacked apartment and a baggie of cocaine. Probably some druggie(s) looking to make a quick buck or get a quick fix. But there were more factors to account for. Darryl’s stash of drugs in the apartment along with a few stolen guns that had the serial numbers removed, guns that came straight out of the evidence locker of the Metuchen police department. The fact that Christina had recently worked for the Tyler family out in Northfield until they all expired due to a gas leak with a faulty boiler in the old mansion. There was motive and opportunity. Quinn would deal with the stolen guns that somehow “landed” in Darryl’s lap—or at least fabricate a lie big enough to cover his tracks since he’s the one that sold them to Darryl months ago when he needed money to pay a loan shark over some football gambling debts.
The death of the Tyler clan was still front and center in Quinn’s mind. The Metuchen police was called into help the smaller Northfield police department take care of the incident. Quinn didn’t know much but it seemed like a tragic, freak accident. Open and shut. Until his old pal Frank Griffith came sniffing around for the autopsy reports, saying he was representing the only living member of the family, the niece and cousin—Eden Tyler. He needed those reports to make sure his client got what she was rightfully entitled to, the vineyard and entire estate due to some survivor clause in New York state probate law.
At first, Quinn didn’t think much of it. Frank was being his usual demanding and dictatorial self. Reminded Quinn how he helped him out of a sticky situation when Quinn was caught soliciting a prostitute over in Milltown, a two bit shithole even more rundown than Metuchen and thirty eight miles west. So Quinn made sure to put the heat on the coroner’s office to get their reports finalized so the case would be resolved.
Quinn should still be over at the crime scene on Howell Street, but forensics was in there doing their thing—dusting for prints, taking pictures, figuring it all out. Besides, Quinn’s fellow partner, a junior named Webster, was handling all the grunt work, including interviewing the downstairs tenants of the apartment house to see if they heard or saw anything. For now, what Quinn needs is a cup of coffee, a shot of Jim Beam and a blow job. And not necessarily in that order.
He hears the radio go off. A drunk and disorderly out at the laundromat. Christ, it’s not even 8:30am! Where in the hell do the people in this shithole town get their gall?! Quinn thinks to himself, running a hand through his wavy and freshly gelled brown hair. At least he had time to take a shower once he came into the station this morning, hoping that a cold one would kill his hangover and the impending sense of dread he felt.
“I’ve gotta get the fuck outta here,” Quinn grumbles under his breath as he grabs his styrofoam cup of coffee and makes a beeline for the door out into the main entrance of the police department. Before he knows it, he’s walking through the parking lot to his unmarked cruiser—a somewhat battered gold Ford Crown Victoria. He’d hit a deer a couple of months ago driving back from The Pink Room inebriated one night and the department told him they weren’t paying for the damage. So the bumper was holding on by a wing and a prayer with a hefty amount of duct tape.
Truthfully, Quinn should’ve been bounced from the force long ago but for whatever reason, he was able to keep his job in spite of the trail of corruption that seemed to follow him. Truthfully, he should’ve hung himself or eaten a bullet from his service issued Sig Sauer but for whatever reason, he was able to externally keep his wits about him even if it didn’t appear that way internally. Quinn kept showing up—hungover, crooked, and waiting for the day the bad luck finally caught up to him.
….
It’s a boring Friday morning in the law office. Tom’s nowhere to be found, probably still hungover from the previous evening or even sleeping off whatever high he got into. Last night after he left Frank’s house, Frank and I argued about me selling my cousin’s Mercedes to Tom. Why did Frank care? Patrick wasn’t alive to protest. And maybe Tom was right, it would be easier to sell it to him than deal with whatever shark wanted to lowball me at the estate sell this weekend.
So I came into work with the title, still in my uncle’s name. Free and clear and ready to just give the Benz to Tom. Might as well be a little philanthropic myself. Might as well give back even if Frank told me I was a dumbass for even entertaining the idea to begin with. He left the house in a huff, striding out to his Lincoln parked in the driveway and backed out before nearly colliding with a gold Ford Crown Victoria parked on the street. I expected Frank to get out, cussing out whomever had the nerve to park their car in front of his driveway but instead, the driver of the Ford backed up to give Frank clearance and followed him on down the street.
The phone rings and it’s yet another unfortunate schmuck looking for legal services, some lady who’s looking for someone to represent her in a stalking charge.
“The public defender said to call you guys,” the woman puffs into the phone in annoyance. “Even he wouldn’t touch my case. A fucking public defender! What happened to my rights?”
As I’m trying to calm this lunatic down on the phone and check Frank and Tom’s schedules to set up a potential meeting, Frank is across town, parked behind the bowling alley in a deep discussion with the driver of the gold Ford Crown Victoria.
“What’s wrong Steve? Get caught with another hooker?” Frank cackles, leaning against the driver’s door of his car while Detective Steve Quinn stands opposite Frank, hands shoved in his pockets.
“You hear what happened out in Metuchen last night?” Quinn inquires.
Frank shrugs his shoulders. “Someone try and stick up The Pink Room again?”
“Nah,” Quinn says, shaking his head. “More like two dead bodies found in an apartment off of Howell Street. Sound familiar?”
Frank scoffs in irritation. “Howell Street? What the hell would I know about Howell Street? Cut to the chase.”
“Fine. One Darryl King and his girlfriend, Christina Torres. The former housekeeper of Jerrod Tyler.”
Frank’s crisp blue eyes narrow momentarily but he keeps his composure. “And this matters to me…how?”
“Darryl was high up with the Sons of Disorder. Christina worked for your client’s uncle. The uncle who died back in March with the rest of his family. The same client who apparently works for you and Tom. You didn’t think to tell me this?”
Frank pauses to light a cigarette, exhaling through his nostrils. “Yes, Jerrod Tyler’s niece Eden works for me. What’s the big deal? I was helping her handle the whole situation with the will. Eden’s an…asset to the law practice. She needed legal counsel.”
“Of course she’s an asset! One who apparently has been living with you!” Quinn hisses, waving his hands around like a madman.
“I’m not sure why you feel the need to be so dramatic, detective. Eden moved in with me after that bastard uncle of hers kicked her out of the guest house. I’m only helping her out. Just like I’ve helped you out time and time again.”
“Right,” Quinn drawls, sucking on a cinnamon flavored toothpick. “I’ll forever be in debt to you, Griffith. Six dead bodies in less than two months from Northfield to here in my backyard. You see why this is a problem for me?”
“Waah, waah,” Frank mocks the detective. “Enough of your whining. Now you actually have to do your job instead of snorting coke off of a hooker’s backside or losing money from gambling on NFL games and horse racing.”
Quinn shakes his head in disgust. “You’re rotten, Frank. You know it, I know it. How do you think this looks? My super is on my ass along with the county attorney to solve the murders. Something tells me you know more than you’re letting on.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “You think I had something to do with some scuzzy biker gang guy and his ex-maid piece of ass meeting their demise? Think again. I don’t give a damn what goes on in your crooked, shitty little town. I was here last night,” Frank says, tapping his cowboy boot against the gravel parking lot. “In Northfield. With Eden. Eating dinner. Watching the news. Went to bed at 9:30. Didn’t wake up until quarter after six. Get real.”
“I’m not accusing you of murder,” Quinn declares. “But I know you Frank. You reek of malfeasance. You always have.”
“Malfeasance?” Frank snaps with a laugh. “Awful big word for someone of your stature, detective. You been studying Merriam Webster in your free time when you’re not pissing away your paycheck?”
“Enough with the wise cracks, Frank. I might not be able to prove it right now, but I know you. And I know you know more than you’re letting on.”
Frank shakes his head and places his hand on the door handle. “We done here Stevie?”
“We’re done for now. I’ll be in touch,” Quinn says.
Frank glowers at him and climbs into his Lincoln before starting it up and taking off. He knew the minute he walked outside and saw Quinn’s unmarked car sitting on the street something was amiss. When this sort of thing has happened in the past, Frank and Quinn would meet up at their customary meeting spot behind the bowling alley. Quinn needed to keep his ass over in Metuchen and worry about that godforsaken hole of a town and not Northfield.
Sure, Frank had tasked Gordy with taking care of Christina Torres, shutting her up once and for all. But Frank and Gordy hadn’t discussed logistics of how Christina would meet her fate. The last he heard, he’d taken care of getting rid of Bridget Gregory’s corpse, or what was left of it. Ever since, Gordy had been lying low. Frank had planned to meet with Gordy this weekend to set it all up. Had Gordy went off half cocked and decided to take matters into his own hands?
No, that wasn’t Gordy’s modus operandi. Gordy was Frank’s faithful lapdog. This mess had someone else’s name written all over it.
“God damnit!” Frank hollers out in his car once the realization dawns on him. “Tommy! Tommy must’ve done it! Stupid fuck!”
It all made sense to now: Tom’s constant pestering about Christina Torres flashing her severance pay around the Cornerstone and around town, blabbing that what happened back in March at Fox Ridge was suspicious and Tom insisting that Frank take care of the problem once and for all. Well I’ve been fucking busy Frank thinks to himself, I’m the one who’s gotta figure out every fucking thing around here! Between the law practice, dealing with Eden, getting the estate sale at Fox Ridge lined up, eliminating Bridget Gregory once and for all…a man’s work is never done!
Frank pulls up at the nearby stoplight and lights up another Marlboro, inhaling it aggressively. It was time to make a pit stop on his way to the office. He figured Tom wouldn’t be vertical before noon and it wasn’t even 9:30 in the morning. There’s only one place he would be. At home. So Frank speeds on through the light once it turns green and makes his way out to Tom’s decrepit Victorian home.
There’s no car in the driveway, at least not Tom’s dead Cadillac. That thing was finally parked at the junk yard where it belonged. Tom’s girlfriend’s Mazda was M.I.A. too. Frank cuts the car off and climbs out, looking around like a villain in a noir film as he tosses his dying cigarette onto the gravel driveway, snuffing it out with the heel of his boot before he makes his way onto the sagging front porch.
No sense in knocking either. Frank has a spare key to Tom’s house so he lets himself in. The house smells like spoiled milk, cigarettes and vomit. A touch of Tom Wolfe ambiance through and through.
“What a pigsty,” Frank groans, pinching the bridge of nose and closing the door behind him. He takes a right out of the foyer and into the living room where he finds Tom face down on the couch, one arm hanging off the side, an empty bottle of Crown Royal on the floor.
Good Morning America on ABC blares from the television in the corner and Frank flicks it off with the nearby remote.
“Time to wake up Tommy!” Frank’s voice booms and he claps his hands together. Tom still doesn’t wake up, so Frank reaches down and shakes at his shoulder.
“Up and at ‘em! Wake up!”
Tom’s eyes slowly flutter open and he looks around in confusion, yawning. “Frank? Is that you?”
“No, it’s Captain Kirk from Star Trek, dumbass. Yes, it’s Frank. Wake your ass up.”
“What’s the deal?” Tom groans and stifles a yawn. “You making house calls now?”
“Damn right I am,” Frank says, planting his hands on his hips. “You wanna tell me how the fuck that spic maid of Jerrod Tyler’s ends up dead alongside her biker boyfriend?”
Tom reaches for the bottle of Crown Royal on the floor and sits up. Once he realizes it’s empty, he tosses it onto the coffee table.
“I don’t know,” Tom says and pauses to light up a Camel, “What the hell you’re talking about, Frank.”
“Don’t play stupid with me!” Frank spits. “That weasel Quinn was posted up outside the house this morning! He only comes sniffing around when something is amiss! Told me what happened!”
“And?” Tom says cooly. “Sounds like the problem took care of itself then.”
Frank studies Tom and leans over the nearby wingback chair that probably dates back to the Eisenhower Administration, all of the leftover furniture from Maude Anderson—Tom’s former geriatric client turned lover. He brushes his fingers across the dingy looking upholstery, some unfortunate looking floral jacquard pattern and sighs in annoyance.
“You’re lying.”
Tom chuckles and takes another drag off of his cigarette. “Since when did you get a moral compass? You’re the one who started this whole cluster fuck to begin with, Frankie. Not me.”
“Tell me how you did it.”
“How I did what? I didn’t do shit. Haven’t set foot in Metuchen in over a week.”
“Enough!” Frank hollers loud enough to cause Tom to drop his cigarette onto the couch cushion. “Quit fucking around! For once in your sorry life, do the right thing!”
Tom glares at Frank, snarling his lip. “Do the right thing, huh? That’s rich coming from you. You’re the biggest charlatan this town’s seen since Jerrod Tyler pretended to be an award winning winemaker. Out here banging Jerrod’s niece before the ink even dried on his death certificate.”
“Watch your tone Tommy,” Frank grumbles.
Tom shakes his head. “Nah, I’m done watching my tone. This whole thing is your fault. If you had handled the situation with the housekeeper like I told you to do instead of sniffing Eden’s panties, none of this would’ve happened! Matter of fact, had you not been such a ruthless bastard, the Tyler family would all still be alive and breathing! But no, not you! Once someone double crosses Frank Griffith, that’s it for them!”
“I didn’t have shit to do with what happened to Jerrod Tyler and his clan!” Frank rips, jamming his finger towards Tom. “That was all on you, Wolfe. Your fingerprints are at that crime scene, not mine. I was two time zones away in Las Vegas.”
“Right, gambling money and trying to seduce Eden. Coming up with the perfect alibi while you had your beady eyed henchman Gordy and I running interference back here in Northfield. The blood is never on your hands. You just sit back and pull the strings.”
Frank takes a few steps towards where Tom is sitting on the couch, cutting his blue eyes at him like a machete. “You’re out of line. I’m the one that gave you your start in this town, dipshit. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be running half assed scams on elderly widows out of the back of your Cadillac. Don’t forget it was you who approached me that day at Faye’s Diner.”
“Fuck off, Frank. I was doing fine before you. I’ll be doing fine after you too.”
“After me?” Frank balks, eyes wide. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ll be dead by Labor Day.”
“That a threat?” Tom says in a flat tone, not even bothered.
“Take it however you want.”
Before either man can say another word, the front door creaks open. Limping footsteps cross the foyer and there stands Bob Vance in the archway entry of the living room, leaning on his cane. His dark eyes are lifeless and shark like and he’s still wearing the same threads he had on last night during the murders in Metuchen.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Frank asks his former client.
Bob ignores him and turns his attention towards Tom. “Where’s my condo?”
Tom blinks. “Excuse me?”
“My condo,” Bob repeats, enunciating each syllable like a threat. “Northfield Crossing. The one you promised me.”
Tom sighs deeply and rubs his chin.
“What’s he talking about Tom?” Frank interjects.
“Your fat ass law partner promised me a condo at Northfield Crossing. Said he would hook me up. All I had to do was help him eliminate the problem with that mouthy Mexican bitch. Well things changed. We didn’t account for an extra problem. So I want my condo and I want money. Ten large,” Bob explains.
Now Frank knows who helped Tom commit the blunder in Metuchen with Christina and her biker boyfriend. Of course Tom would call upon the likes of the wife murdering Bob Vance. Once Frank realizes this, he starts to chuckle and shakes his head.
“Way to go, Dumb and Dumber. This is who you called up to help you out?” Frank asks Tom and flicks his thumb in Bob’s direction. “This unhinged psychopath? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Hello to you too, Frank,” Bob spits.
“Jesus Christ. It’s too early for this shit!” Tom hollers. “Goddamnit I need a drink. And a few lines of coke.” With that, Tom rummages around on the mess on the coffee table looking for the fix he won’t find.
“So you killed them after all, huh?” Frank inquires.
By this time, Tom’s no longer in the mood to lie. He might as well man up and tell the truth. “Yes, Frank. I took yet another one for the team. Bobby filled in as needed. Who cares? It’s over with. Problem solved.”
“Unfuckingbelievable,” Frank mutters. “You two inept dimwits murdered Jerrod Tyler’s former housekeeper and her motorcycle gang boyfriend. Do you know what kind of problem this is gonna cause me?”
“Who gives a shit! I want my condo!” Bob hollers, tapping his cane against the dusty wooden floor.
“I’m out of here,” Frank mumbles. “Figure this shit out on your own, Tommy.”
With that, Frank leaves Tom’s house in a haste to leave Tom alone with Bob, who’s still droning on and on about his condominium and the money he now wants for handling Darryl King.
“Look, I’ll go out to the leasing office this afternoon and see what I can do. No promises though,” Tom says to Bob once he’s managed to calm him down.
Now Tom’s pushing him towards the front door with four thousand dollars in cash. Never mind the fact that he stole $9,783 dollars from Christina Torres before Bob ended up shooting her point blank in the chest. Four thousand would be enough to appease Bob, for now at least.
“I want the other six,” Bob says once he’s crossed the threshold and back onto the front porch.
“Yeah, yeah. And I’ll throw in a La-Z Boy power recliner once we get you all moved in. Bye.”
Tom slams the door shut and leans against it, closing his eyes. Right now he needs to get some drugs in his system to give him some clarity. It doesn’t matter what it is, he just needs something and fast.
….
Thursday, May 30th, 1996
“I can’t believe Christina is dead,” I tell Will Hastings, my uncle’s former farmhand. He agreed to meet me for lunch at Faye’s Diner.
Will takes a bite of his bacon cheeseburger and chews it while listening to me talk about her tragic death.
“Yeah, it’s crazy. All of this bad shit happening here the last couple of months,” Will says.
“The newspaper said something about drugs and a robbery gone wrong? I guess her boyfriend was in a biker gang?”
Will nods. “Something like that. But Christina wasn’t into drugs. Sure, she liked to drink and smoke pot every now and then. But not the hard stuff. Not like the paper eluded to, making her out to be some criminal. She was murdered in cold blood.”
I still remember Frank talking about it casually over breakfast a couple of days after it happened. I’d read in the paper the Saturday after the shootings and was horrified to learn Christina was one of the victims. As for her boyfriend, I didn’t know him. Christina only talked about him in passing but didn’t say much.
“That maid that used to work for your uncle and aunt? Apparently she wasn’t a stand up gal,” Frank had said while eating bacon and eggs. “Her boyfriend was some druggie biker. She was shacking up with him after she dipped out of Fox Ridge. Guess she got mixed up with the wrong crowd.”
Christina’s funeral service was held back in the Bronx and was private. I sent flowers to the funeral home—calla lilies. I called them to ask if she was going to be buried or cremated but they wouldn’t give me any information other than their address to send the flowers to for the funeral service. Not that I knew any of Christina’s family, but it would’ve felt like the right thing to do to pay my respects. We weren’t best friends, but Christina and I bonded while I was working at the Christmas tree farm and living there momentarily. She knew how fucked up my family was. And now she was a casualty, just like the rest of them.
“I wish I could’ve done something,”
I say, my voice trailing off as I look out the window.
Will studies me for a moment like he’s sizing up my life now and downs some of his Pepsi. “How’s it going working at the law office for Frank Griffith and his partner?”
“It’s…work,” I say, knowing if I start explaining, I’ll end up spilling more than I should.
“You still living with Frank?” he asks, like he’s just tossing it out there. But Will’s not the type to toss anything out there without purpose.
“Yeah.”
“I would’ve thought with your uncle and everyone else gone that maybe you would’ve moved back to the farm.”
“And do what?” I ask, my voice coming out a little harsher than I intended it to. “Wait around to see some ghosts?”
He doesn’t flinch. Will knows better than anyone what kind of haunted house Fox Ridge really is. Family arguments revolving around wine, money, Christmas trees, Patrick’s constant state of drunkenness, my uncle thinking he was better than everyone else.
If Will clocks my attitude, he certainly doesn’t say anything, just changes the subject. And that subject of conversation revolves around him leaving Fox Ridge. How he’s taken another job and will be moving in with his fiancée. My uncle’s longtime farmhand wants out. Of course I’ll need to give him a severance package too, which won’t be a problem.
“I figured you didn’t want the responsibility of running the vineyard or the Christmas tree farm so I figured I would look for another job. I can stay on until after the estate sell if that helps,” Will explains.
By the time our lunch is over with, I feel more confused than anything. I’m still thinking about Christina and her boyfriend and still thinking about my family. How all of this bad stuff seemed to happen once I set foot in this strange town. It almost makes me wonder if I’m some bad luck talisman? Everything I touch seems to turn to shit. Everyone I get close to ends up leaving me anyway.
I head back to the office, choosing to walk since the weather’s so nice. I’m a couple blocks away when I hear the obnoxious honking of a horn. I turn around to see Tom Wolfe in my cousin Patrick’s 1976 white Mercedes Benz convertible, the one I’d recently given him. The top is down and the CD player is blaring Cyndi Lauper’s “Money Changes Everything ”. Tom looks like a caricature of himself—his strawberry blonde hair windswept, a pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers covering his eyes. He’s grinning, slowly driving alongside the sidewalk. This looks like the opening scene of a John Hughes movie that should’ve been rightfully left on the cutting room floor.
“Hey, need a lift?” Tom hollers out over Cyndi yelping on the stereo.
I look around to see if anyone can see me, almost embarrassed to be seen with Tom, why I’m not sure. The few people that are milling about on the street seem to be in their own little worlds, save for a shopkeeper who is sweeping the front of his doorstep and shaking his head in annoyance at the loud eighties music.
I nod and quickly step off the sidewalk and go around to the passenger side and let myself in the car. Since Tom took ownership of my late cousin’s ride, he’s managed to get it washed and waxed. The tan ragtop is still battered and cracked but compared to Tom’s old war torn Cadillac clunker—the 20 year old Benz might as well be brand new.
Tom taps the gas pedal and we’re off, the music swelling until Tom decides to turn the stereo down.
“So, you ready for this big sale this weekend?” Tom asks.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” The estate sale is finally popping off this Saturday, starting bright and early at 9am. I’ve been dreading it because it’s been such a pain in the ass, but Frank has handled most of the logistics in his usual get-shit-done fashion.
“Thanks again for letting me have her,” Tom says as he thumps the dashboard with two fingers. “I’ve tried to clean her up a bit. Gonna see about getting the ragtop replaced. Get some new tires put on before the winter.”
“Sure, Tom,” I respond, staring out the windshield.
“You ok?” Tom asks. “You seem a little preoccupied.”
“Eh, I’m fine. Just overwhelmed. Will told me at lunch that he’s leaving.”
Tom shrugs his shoulders indifferently. “Well, that makes sense doesn’t it? It’s not like you were planning on continuing the vineyard and tree farm, huh? Might as well let the trash take itself out.”
“Will’s not trash,” I sigh. “He was one of the first friends I made here in Northfield. He and Christina Torres both. Remember her?”
Tom drums his fingers on the steering wheel and turns his attention to a new coffee shop that’s just opened up on the corner.
“Common Ground,” Tom gestures. “I heard they’re charging three dollars for a cup of coffee. Too rich for my blood. You been yet?”
I don’t give a shit about the new coffee shop.
“I asked you a question, Tom. Do you remember Christina? My aunt and uncle’s former maid? The one who got killed with her boyfriend?”
“Yeah, Edie. I heard you the first time. That’s too bad. Life goes on though. Frank said their coffee tastes like shit.”
“I don’t give a damn about the coffee or what Frank said!” I yell. “Everything is fucked! Everyone is dead!”
Tom looks over at me and pulls his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose. “A little dramatic are we? Let me guess, you’ve finally realized living with Frank Griffith is not all it’s cracked up to be?”
“Shut up, Wolfe. I’m not talking about Frank. My family’s dead. Christina’s dead and her boyfriend too.”
“And?” Tom quips. “People die, Eden. It’s called life. We’re all gonna die, eventually. Might as well face the music.”
I start to say something in protest but Tom holds up a fat, crooked finger.
“My father blew his brains out when I was eight. My childhood ended that day. It was just my mother and I. Someone had to be the man of the house and that someone was me. Death’s coming for us all. Now I’m sorry about your family and your friend. But you should be living your life in the here and now. They would want you to be happy.”
More Tom Wolfe words of wisdom.
“Y’know what I mean, Eden? Yeah what happened to your uncle Jerrod and his family was a real tragedy. But let’s face it. He wasn’t gonna leave you a dime in his will. Not even a pot to piss in. You got the last laugh, baby,” Tom says casually.
I roll my eyes at him. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it isn’t working.”
“Well, I never said I was a therapist, Edie. I’m a teller of truths. Now you’ve got the whole estate and can do whatever you want. You won’t have to work again a day in your life. Hell, you might as well quit the practice. Frank and I can get by.”
Tom rambles on, first about how nice the weather is, how his new client is already getting on his nerves and when his pager goes off and he looks at it, narrowly missing a mother pushing a stroller across the street, he ends his ramble about some guy named Bob is ”gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”
And somehow I can’t help but think that Northfield, New York is a place where people come to die.
Once we’re back in the office, I get myself up to speed by taking care of some court documents and paying a few utility bills. Tom and Frank are holed up in Frank’s office on a supposed conference call.
Instead, Electric Light Orchestra belts out “Don’t Bring Me Down ” behind Frank’s closed office door with Tom singing off key while Frank watches him in mild contempt with a cigarette tucked between his lips, a file folder in his hand.
“You done with the concert?” Frank asks Tom sarcastically somewhere around the three minute and five second mark.
Tom’s splayed out on the couch, tossing a tennis ball back and forth in his hands, his loafers kicked off. He looks over at Frank with a lazy smile. “I saw E.L.O. live back when I was at Hofstra. They were playing a sold out show at Madison Square Garden. Got a ticket from a scalper. Of course the fucking thing was counterfeit so the ticket agent threw me out. But I found another avenue and ended up getting in anyway. Suckers.”
“Of course you did,” Frank says and puffs on his Marlboro Light. “Speaking of suckers, how are you handling your bumbling friend Bob Vance? You know he’s called and left three messages here on the answering machine since yesterday morning about that fucking condominium.”
Tom groans. “Yeah, I know. He paged me on my way back from lunch. You think he would just take a hint, but not Bob. I got him the unit and got him moved in. What the fuck else does he want?”
“You pay him yet for that little hiccup with Darryl King?” Frank inquires.
“Nah, not yet. I gave him four large. Of course he wants the other six, but I bought him a new thirty six inch Toshiba television and a La-Z Boy recliner with power to tide him over.”
Frank snubs his cigarette out in the ashtray. “The estate sale is Saturday. I need you there bright and early. By 8am. Don’t forget. Try to take it easy on the booze and the junk Friday night. I need you on your A game.”
“My A game,” Tom repeats. “Yes, Daddy Frank. I’ll be there. Think I can maybe get first dibs on Martha Tyler’s Waterford crystal collection?
“Jesus Christ,” Frank mutters. “Eden already gave you Pat’s busted up Benz. Now you want her aunt’s fine crystal? What the hell do you plan on doing with that?”
“Hey, that stuff’s top dollar. Figured maybe I could get the friends and family discount,” Tom muses.
“The crystal’s already spoken for and already in inventory with the auction. So don’t even think about trying to pull a fast one.”
“What about the Fabergé eggs? Think maybe I can at least get one for sentimental value?”
Frank sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Eden’s keeping them, why I don’t know. Has them in my curio cabinet like they’re fucking trophies.”
“Ha,” Tom cackles. “And once the estate sell is over with, what happens then? You gonna push the sale of the farm off on her?”
“That’s the plan. I already have my Buffalo connects concocting everything in our favor. She’ll sell, no doubt. I’ll make sure she gets paid fair market value but I’ll also make sure you and I get a nice cut of the pie. The biggest slice belongs to yours truly though,” Frank declares with a shit eating grin.
“What about the family legacy? Eden might be as stubborn as that prick uncle of hers,” Tom interjects, sitting up with a smirk. Family legacy: the two words that always cause Frank’s brain to short circuit.
Frank’s smile falters just as Tom figured it would. “Don’t start. Eden will sell. It’ll be hard to say no. And once she gets the money, she can fuck off and get out of my house. I didn’t sign up to deal with all of this. A moody woman who cries at the drop of a hat now. Hasn’t let me touch her in over a week.”
Tom guffaws laughter. “You must be going through it then. Frank Griffith not getting his dick wet. How many trips have you made to see Lula or Madison?”
“Zero,” Frank groans. “Instead, I’ve been consoling her almost every night once she gets done bitching me out. She just keeps bringing up that housekeeper cunt, like she’s trying to play fucking Matlock meets Cagney & Lacey.”
“Speaking of cops, you haven’t heard from your rat friend over in Metuchen lately have you?”
Frank shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t plan on it either. Hopefully you and Bob didn’t leave anything behind to tie the unfortunate series of events back to the two of you. I don’t wanna have to think about plan B.”
Tom suddenly sits up, his eyes growing wide. “Plan B? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You gonna have me killed now?”
“I’m thinking more like Bob, he’s a liability. I don’t trust that deranged fuck. We both know what he did to his wife.”
“And we both got him off, remember?” Tom says. “The Griffith and Wolfe way. Just like The Dream Team. Can you imagine if we were out in California and linked up with Johnnie Cochran and Robert Shapiro? Nobody could stop us.”
The file folder Frank had been lazily scanning gets tossed across the room and lands at Tom’s feet. “Quit fantasizing, Tommy. This is serious. You and I both know it’s only a matter of time before Bob’s gonna go off half cocked again and say or do something real stupid. That’s a risk I can’t take. I still don’t know why you got that maniac involved. If you would’ve just waited for me to handle it like I said I would, Gordy would’ve taken care of the housekeeper and her boyfriend too.”
“Yeah? Well I didn’t! Someone around here had to think fast on their feet for once! Might as well have been me! I took care of it, Frank. Not you and not your oddball friend Gordo. Me.”
“You must be so proud,” Frank says sarcastically. “Once again, another fuck up brought to us by Tom Wolfe. Do you realize how many fuck ups of yours I’ve had to clean up over the years? Hmmm? It’s getting old, Tommy. I’m getting too old for this.”
“Whatever,” Tom laments. “I did what I had to do. If mistakes got made in the process, so be it. Collateral damage my friend. Let me handle Bob. I’m sure if I give him some drugs to tide him over, maybe even throw in an adult entertainment package with his new cable programming, he’ll shut up about the six grand.”
“Bright idea, give that whacked out lunatic even more fuel to the fire. I don’t think so. Not happening. Gordy will handle him.”
“Not smart, Frank. If Gordy takes care of Bob, that means yet another dead body. More of the fuzz sniffing around.”
Frank holds up his hand like the matter has already been settled. “That’s the difference between you and Gordy. When Gordy makes problems disappear, they go away…permanently. Clean and untraceable. Not the amateur hour you and Bob cooked up in Metuchen.”
Tom’s about to fire something back but a loud noise comes from down the hallway. Frank and Tom both get up in unison and storm out of the office and down the hallway to the reception area where I’m currently duking it out with the Xerox machine. The LCD reads PAPER JAM IN TRAY TWO along with a flashing red light.
“Son of a bitch!” I hiss, kicking the Xerox even harder than I already did. The paper tray rattles loose and one of the side panels falls open. Still jammed, still blinking.
Cue the tandem of footsteps into my office.
Frank’s voice comes first. “What the hell’s going on out here?” He’s looking at me like he could kill me, hands planted on his hips.
Then Tom, already chuckling. “Looks like she’s gone postal.”
I stare at both of them, hair half in my face, eyes red, lips trembling. “It jammed,” I mutter, already feeling the tears pressing against the back of my throat like a rising tide.
Tom lifts a small orange prescription bottle and gives it a casual rattle. “Yikes. Might be time for one of these, Edie.”
“Go to hell,” I whisper, but it’s too late. The first tear’s already sliding down my cheek.
Frank’s whole face changes. No longer annoyed, just…tired and gentle. “Alright, that’s enough. Come on.” He puts an arm around my shoulders and starts walking me toward his office.
“I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth.
“Sure you are,” Frank says under his breath.
He eases me down into the leather chair across from his desk. He closes the door behind us with a solid click. I cover my face with both hands, ashamed of the tears that won’t stop now that they’ve started.
A few seconds later, the door creaks back open.
Tom saunters in like a sitcom neighbor, still holding the bottle of Xanax. “I brought party favors,” he says, shaking it again with a grin.
“Get out,” Frank says without even looking at him.
“C’mon, one half of one of these and she’ll be floating over that copier like Mary fuckin’ Poppins.”
I slap the bottle out of his hand. It hits the rug with a soft thud and rolls under the coffee table. “I said go to hell!”
Tom’s hands go up. “Okay, okay. Jesus. Sensitive much?”
Frank shoots him a look sharp enough to slice open a deposition file. “I said leave us be.”
Tom opens his mouth to say something else but thinks better of it. He gives me a little mock salute and backs out slowly. “Holler if you need a shoulder to cry on or a felony to commit,” He mutters before shutting the door behind him.
Frank crouches in front of me, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re alright,” he says, voice low and weirdly sincere. “Just overwhelmed. It’s been a shitty couple months.”
“No kidding,” I say, wiping my face with the sleeve of my blouse. “Everything’s fucked. And now the copier hates me too.”
He chuckles. “The copier hates everyone.”
I breathe in, then out, shaky and long. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He stands up, pours two fingers of scotch into one of his crystal tumblers from the credenza behind his desk. “Drink this. Then go home early. I’ll deal with the rest.”
I look up at Frank through teary eyes. “I can’t. I’ve got a stack of bills to pay. Not to mention, you need me for the interview with your 2:30 client.”
“I need you to not have a goddamn nervous breakdown at work,” he says flatly, setting the glass down in front of me.
I sip it. It burns. But I don’t stop crying.
Frank just leans back in his chair, lights a cigarette and says smoothly, “You cry all you want, sweetheart. I’ll keep the jackals at bay.”
Frank takes another drag of his cigarette, the office thick with the smell of tobacco, scotch, and general masculinity. The kind of smell that’s soaked into the leather chairs and the walls. I’m slouched in the chair now, legs crossed, glass of scotch warming in my hand. I’ve mostly stopped crying. Mostly.
He eyes me for a moment, real still, like he’s deciding if now is the right time to poke the bear. Spoiler: he pokes it anyway.
“So,” Frank starts, in that calculating low voice of his, “We ever gonna have sex again?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah,” Frank shrugs. “Sex. What we’ve been doing for the last month or so. It’s been seven days now. I didn’t realize I’d signed up to be in a monastery over here.”
I take a sip of the scotch, glaring at him over the rim of the glass. “I didn’t realize I was obligated to fuck you, Frank. I’ve been upset. You know…emotionally unwell? Coping with trauma?”
“Oh I know,” Frank says, blowing cigarette smoke towards the ceiling. “You’ve been coping so hard you flinched when I tried to rub your back last night. I’m a man, Eden. I have needs. Last night I could’ve been over in Metuchen at The Pink Room. It was Wednesday. But no. I’ve been at home. Taking care of you. Doing the right thing.”
“Don’t you dare gaslight me you son of a bitch! I don’t give a shit about your needs!”
“No shit you don’t,” Frank huffs, his blue flame eyes narrowing in annoyance. “You don’t give a shit about a lot of things anymore.”
I clench my teeth and stand up, slamming the glass of half empty scotch on the edge of Frank’s desk.
“I’m going home. I don’t give a shit what you do.”
If Frank wants to give me his signature glare, he doesn’t. He just studies me from behind a plume of Marlboro smoke. I don’t bother to close his office door on the way out.
….
Saturday, June 1st, 1996
The grounds of Fox Ridge Vineyards and Christmas Tree Farm looked like an audition for the second coming of Christ. Hundreds of people milled about the estate sale of the late Jerrod Tyler and family.
“Everything must go,” Frank told the auction coordinator before the scheduled 9am start time.
And now it’s close to 2pm and mostly everything sold in the auction besides a few odds and ends. Some things were sold outright, like the family vehicles and a few pieces of furniture. Uncle Jerrod’s Range Rover? Sold to a banker from New Jersey. My aunt’s Saab? Some guy with a combover and yellow teeth said he was buying it for his teenage daughter’s first car. The best looking car of the bunch was Caroline’s Mercedes Benz which had been in my uncle’s name until I inherited it all.
“Thirty thousand,” Frank told the pushy overweight blonde woman who had been trying to haggle on the price with him for all of ten minutes.
“I’ll give you twenty two,” she said as she ran her finger across the trunk.
“Thirty or you can hit the trail back to wherever you came here from,” Frank said smugly.
Tom had been arguing with a married couple over a pair of matching Tiffany lamps that once sat in the formal living room on end tables.
“Louis Comfort Tiffany himself made these lamps,” Tom says proudly.
The man looks at Tom like he has a horn coming out of his head and rightfully so. Louis Tiffany had long since been dead—1933 to be precise. In the end, the Tiffany lamps didn’t sell. Now I watch as Tom is slipping them into the open trunk of his Mercedes. A few minutes ago, he offered me $100 cash for the lamps, but I told him to just get them out of my sight.
“We did good today baby,” Frank announces as he comes up behind me. “We made quite the profit.”
I turn around and glare at him from behind my sunglasses. “I wasn’t aware you got a profit.”
Frank grins at me, all teeth. “You. Me. We. Same difference.”
The auction coordinator had written a check to me but I didn’t bother to look at it, just told Frank to put it up for safekeeping along with everything else.
“I need to go lie down. I’m going inside,” I tell Frank and don’t bother to wait for a response. Thankfully there’s still a couch in the formal living room that didn’t sell so I can curl up on that and hopefully take a nap.
Outside, Tom slips his Ray Bans on top of his head and gives Frank a crooked smile.
“I caught Eden throwing up earlier behind the guest house,” Tom announces.
“And?” Frank retorts.
Tom scrunches up his nose and makes an ugly face. “Come on, Frank. That was just this morning. Yesterday at the office while you were out? I kept count. She threw up twice before lunch. Three more times afterwards. She’s as pale as a ghost.”
“What, are you a doctor now, Tommy? She probably has a stomach bug. Or maybe going through withdrawal since she finally got off the pills you were supplying her with.”
Tom shakes his head to signal no. “It’s not that. I think she might be knocked up.”
Frank looks at Tom in disbelief before breaking out into a full blown laughing fit, complete with wheezing and all. “Knocked up, my ass. She’s on the pill.”
“Christ, even Stevie Wonder could tell something was wrong. I’m telling you, Frankie. Eden’s with child. Wonder if it’s yours?”
Frank’s still laughing, even slapping his knee now. “You need to lay off the drugs. I think they’ve definitely fried your brain now.”
“Look, I got my girlfriend Carol Anne pregnant back at Hofstra when I was in my junior year,” Tom discloses. “She was doing the same shit Eden’s been doing. Crying and puking. Pale and pissed off.”
“What happened to the mistake?” Frank asks as if he’s not talking about a living fetus but something minor.
“I wanted to do the right thing and be a father. Told her I would stand by her. But her ‘rents said otherwise. Made her get an abortion. Told her that I wasn’t fit to raise a child, much less graduate college. Boy I really showed them.”
“Yeah, you showed them alright,” Frank quips. “I can’t even imagine you being responsible for a child. You can’t even remember to bathe everyday.”
“Fuck off, Frank. I would’ve been a good daddy. It can’t be that hard. I watched enough television to learn what makes a good daddy. Sanford and Son. Good Times. All In the Family. My kid would’ve been alright.”
Frank tunes Tom out and starts to stew on what he’s been saying. Eden had been awfully emotional lately, not to mention she’d been getting queasy in the mornings when Frank cooked eggs or even brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Just last night she started dry heaving when Frank mentioned how he wouldn’t mind having a filet cooked rare from The Brass Bell.
No, she can’t be, Frank ponders. She’s thirty six years old. Old enough to be responsible to take her birth control. God knows she’s good at taking pills, recreational or prescription. There’s no way in hell she’s pregnant. And if she is, who’s to say the tot is even mine?
But even Frank knew that was bullshit. He started to do the math. Eden had a habit of keeping her tampons and sanitary napkins stowed on the back of the toilet whenever it was her time of the month, a habit that grossed him out. Now Frank can’t remember the last time he saw them out in the open.
“What the fuck,” Frank whispers. “She can’t be that stupid.”
Tom’s still squawking about fatherhood as Frank walks off, his mahogany brown leather cowboy boots thumping against the ground. Never mind Eden and making sure everything is squared away with what’s left from the estate sale and auction, he has to get out of here.
Less than an hour later, Frank’s sitting inside the champagne room of The Pink Room over in Metuchen. He usually doesn’t haunt this place during daylight hours and most of all, not on a Saturday. But he needed to get away and get away fast. Might as well hop in the Lincoln and head out to Metuchen to get a stiff drink and a lap dance.
A homely stripper wearing a brunette wig with bangs writhes in Frank’s lap, her hands on his kneecaps as she grinds her thong clad ass against the crotch of his Levi’s. “Cold Blooded” by Rick James jams as Frank nurses his whiskey sour. Of course at this hour, they wouldn’t have any of the good looking strippers greasing the poles. Nah, they keep the C-rate ones busy during the day hours, knowing there won’t be too many high rollers in here until after dusk.
“If she is pregnant, I’ll fix it,” Frank says. “Like I fix everything.”
The stripper tosses him a look over her shoulder as she grinds harder against his crotch. “What’d you say baby?”
Frank doesn’t care if he muses out loud in front of this degenerate stripper. It’s not like she cares. She’s getting paid handsomely for this half assed lap dance, plus the one hundred dollar tip that he’ll stuff down her lime green thong. Diamond—age 33—real name Debra, is used to playing therapist for her male clientele.
“My woman might be with child,” Frank groans.
Diamond turns around to face Frank so her over the muscle silicone breast implants are right in his face. Normally Frank would try and cop and feel. The Pink Room is hands off meaning the strippers can touch the clients but the clients can’t touch back. That rule doesn’t apply to Frank though. It never has. He’s in good with the guy that owns the place anyway since he got him off on racketeering charges back in 1988.
But Frank’s in no mood to cop a feel. No, he is pissed off and rightfully so.
“She can’t be that stupid. Can’t be. I’m too old to be a father. I’m 55 for fuck’s sake! How am I supposed to juggle courtroom theatrics and backroom deals with a kid to worry about?”
“You’d make a good Daddy, baby,” Diamond purrs as she takes her French manicured fingers across Frank’s smooth shaven cheek. “I get off in 30 minutes. Want me to make you feel real good?”
That’s cue for ”Do you want a blow job out back in the parking lot once I’m off company time or would you rather take me somewhere, maybe the Motel 6 down the road for an hourly rate?”
Frank weighs his options. Sure, he could get his dick wet. It’s not like Eden’s been spreading her legs these days. But then again, Diamond could be crawling with unchecked venereal diseases. Usually Frank’s smart enough to keep a Trojan or two tucked into his wallet. After all, she’s a stripper. Lula—Frank’s good time girl was a former stripper that he met right here in The Pink Room years ago. And Frank’s second wife was a stripper too, the one he picked up during a Toronto business trip.
Sharon, Mrs. Frank Griffith #2, stage name “Cinnamon”—god bless her. Frank hasn’t thought about her in years, not since he slapped her with the divorce decree when she refused to get an abortion and ended up miscarrying their child. Frank doesn’t know if the baby was a boy or girl, not that it mattered.
No, Frank had big visions when he first saw her. He said it was love, but it was just lust working overtime. Frank thought he did the right thing, talked her into giving up stripping and he would make her his wife, and not just any old wife but a lawyer’s wife. That had to count for something, right? So he did the right thing. Courted her for a few months, flying back and forth from Buffalo to Toronto so he could get lap dances and blow jobs almost every weekend. Then he proposed. Told her it was time to make this thing official.
Sharon gladly said yes and Frank brought her back to the U.S., got married in Buffalo at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, the church he was christened in as a baby and confirmed in as a boy. Some of Sharon’s family and friends from Canada came down for the affair. Gordy was Frank’s best man. Afterwards, he booked a suite at the Sheraton Hotel and they spent their 48 hour honeymoon fucking, sipping champagne and doing a little blow. When they felt like coming up for air, they ordered room service. And once they got home, Sharon was hit with reality. Frank’s Alzheimer’s riddled mother, Mabel, waiting in the wings with the expensive home health aide Frank hired to take care of her.
“Who’s this?” Sharon asked as they walked into Frank’s house. Mabel wondered the same thing and also wondered who Frank was.
He hadn’t seen his mom in a couple of weeks. Not that she cared, she kept calling Frank, Jimmy or Charlie (his late brothers’ names) anyway.
“This is my mother, Mabel,” Frank said as he gingerly pushed his ailing mother towards his new wife.
“Is she here to welcome us home?” Sharon asked suspiciously.
“No,” Frank said nonchalantly with his signature smile. “She lives here. With me. With us.”
In the present day, Frank chuckles as he recalls the look on Sharon’s face when she realized she didn’t just come to the United States to be an attorney’s wife and lead the life of leisure, but rather a full time caregiver to her new mother in law.
Also in the present day, Diamond is still grinding and purring so Frank takes a sip of his drink and gives her a fifty dollar bill.
“Just keep quiet and keep dancing. Let me think,” he tells her. So Diamond takes the fifty and Frank slouches down in the booth of the champagne room and closes his eyes as he drifts to days long gone…
….
Buffalo, New York, September 1975
Frank Griffith sits inside of his black Lincoln Town Car. He’d always been a Lincoln man. He’d bought this one in cash a few months ago. Even though Frank smoked like a chimney, the Lincoln still had that new car smell. It was enough to make his dick hard. He gazes up at his house in Buffalo, one that he got for a song in a real estate deal gone sideways.
The house was modest but it was his. It was in a nice neighborhood too, far nicer than the one Frank grew up in across town. He could see the lights aglow inside. He figured Sharon was probably still awake, watching television and fretting over her new breast implants. Frank called it a late wedding gift and was still riding the high of his April nuptials.
Sharon didn’t want new boobs, her perky B cups were just fine. After all they’d been enough to put Frank in a trance when he first saw her under the hot lights of the strip club back in Toronto. But Frank said otherwise and told the surgeon he wanted them to be a full C cup before he stroked the check for three thousand dollars. As usual, Frank got what Frank wanted.
Frank climbs out of the car and heads inside to find Sharon on the couch holding a box of tissues and crying over some stupid sitcom. Frank never cared much for television shows—they were make believe. Watching the news was one thing, getting lost in some TV family’s melodrama every week didn’t appeal to him.
“What’s wrong now?” Frank asks as he crosses the foyer into the living room, sitting his briefcase on the floor next to his recliner.
Sharon looks up at him, her green eyes glassy from the tears and shakes her head. “I can’t do it anymore. I’m done.”
Frank rolls his eyes and pours himself a glass of Crown Royal from the bar cart near the television. “What did I miss?”
“Your mother called me a whore,” Sharon says. “And then she threw a bedpan full of piss at me.”
Frank has his back turned to her and arches his eyebrows as if to say ”Oh well.” However, when he turns around, he shifts his face into something vaguely resembling sympathy and offers his wife a glass of liquor and sits down on the couch next to her.
“Sharon, you know how she gets. She doesn’t realize she’s being cruel.”
“She doesn’t realize anything, Frank! She doesn’t even know who you are!” Sharon shouts as she snatches the glass of amber liquid from Frank’s hand. “Why can’t you put her somewhere? In a home?”
Frank takes a sip of his liquor and holds up a hand. “She is home, sweetie. With us, where she belongs.”
“I mean where people who are trained professionals can handle her! This is not what I left Canada for!” Sharon exclaims.
Now Frank launches into his usual Machiavellian behavior. “Not what you left Canada for, huh? Sweetheart, you went from working the pole as a nobody with bad teeth to living the cushy high life of being my wife. I got you out of that double wide trailer you hailed from and brought you here, to my country. My city.”
“You’re an asshole!” Sharon fires back. “I didn’t ask to be your wife!”
Frank takes a swig of his poison and swallows hard. “Well you sure as hell didn’t mind saying yes to that sparkling 1.5 carat pear cut diamond you’ve got on your finger.”
Frank’s used to women submitting to him except for his first wife. His first wife was a cocktail waitress he’d picked up in the city while he was still in law school, back when he was still a young buck. The first Mrs. Frank Griffith was named Kathleen. She was a tall and leggy blonde and Frank charmed her while he was a student, often coming by the bar she worked at in between classes. They got married during the summer of 1964 when Frank was fresh out of law school.
A year into the marriage, Kathleen quit working at the bar and decided to take night classes so she could pursue a degree in education. Frank was still a fresh fish at the first law office he’d worked at and couldn’t handle being the sole breadwinner. They argued often and it was usually about money. To appease Frank, Kathleen took a part time job working as a teacher’s assistant at a small Jewish school a few blocks from where they lived. It wasn’t much, but she was able to shadow the teacher so she could see how much she would enjoy becoming an educator herself.
Their union remained on the rocks. Frank couldn’t take his marriage vows seriously and went after any woman that looked at him twice. It didn’t take much back then—Frank was handsome, his light blue eyes sparkled at just the right moments for the opposite sex and he had a nice physique. Not to mention, he had the gift of gab and a charismatic personality to boot. Kathleen wanted children, Frank did not. But they did have one thing in common: they were both strong willed and hot headed. Kathleen might as well had been the female version of Frank, minus his ruthless side when crossed.
During Thanksgiving dinner in 1968, she threw a gravy boat at Frank’s head during a heated debate over her wanting to start a family. She was nearing thirty years old and desperate to have a child. Frank threatened to carve her face with the carving knife he’d just used on the turkey a short while before. Of course he didn’t actually mean it, Frank was no wife beater. He never laid a hand on a woman. It was one thing to slap asses or tits during sex, it was a whole other beast to abuse the weaker of the two genders.
“I told you when we got married I wanted a baby! You said fine!” Kathleen huffed as she tossed a yeast roll at Frank.
“Yeah, well you agreed to keep a clean house and a hot meal on the table every night! Lies!” Frank shouted back as he threw the plate of canned cranberry sauce against the wall.
“I guess we’re both liars then,” Kathleen said quietly, then proceeded to weep into the pumpkin orange cloth napkin. “I want a divorce.”
“Fine,” Frank said without argument. “You can have the fucking house too. I’m outta here.”
Frank was pissed about the dissolution of his marriage, mainly because he felt he had been duped. Four years of being a husband and what did he have to show for? Nothing, other than Kathleen’s thighs jiggled now whenever she walked. So Frank had one of the senior partners at the law firm draft up divorce papers that weekend and he moved out shortly thereafter.
After that, Frank told himself he would never allow himself to get entangled with another strong willed woman. No, he wanted a woman to submit to him. So there was a long line of potential female suitors in the coming months after he’d legally separated from Kathleen and they were all more than willing to get on their knees for the up and coming lawyer. Of course years later, Frank would end up falling head over heels in love with Bridget Gregory, one of the most ferocious and strong willed woman he’d known since Kathleen.
(And we know what happened there…)
A few weeks passed and Frank and Sharon would end up making up. He bought her a diamond tennis bracelet he’d hocked from a low rate jeweler in the Bronx. Mabel continued to throw bedpans at her new daughter in law. And Frank did what he did best: kept the wheels greased just enough to keep everyone happy. Whenever Sharon complained, Frank would just buy her something. A new Kitchen Aid stand mixer, a Cartier watch, even a brand new Chevy Monte Carlo. In turn, Sharon would lose the attitude after Frank sweet talked with her gifts and would get on her knees for Frank while he plotted his next move.
But just like the first wife, it wasn’t enough for this one either. A few years later, she too wanted a child so she made sure to take advantage of Frank one night when he was drunk and made sure he didn’t wear a condom. She timed it just right so the unsafe sex took place during the most fertile time of her monthly cycle. And when Sharon pee-peed in a cup at her doctors office six weeks later and was given the good news, Frank was busy in Los Angeles on a business trip having a threesome with twin sisters who were trying to get picked up by Playboy Magazine.
When he came home from his business trip, he brought a pair of pearl earrings with him to Sharon to make up for the transgression with the twins that she would never know about. But he didn’t realize the greatest gift of all would be waiting for him when he got home: the gift of fatherhood.
“Baby, my ass!” Frank yelled once Sharon had broken the news. “Who’s to say it’s even mine?”
Sharon was heartbroken. Of course the baby was Frank’s. She took her marriage seriously, unlike her husband. She hadn’t even looked at another man once she met Frank. Her male clients at the strip club didn’t count, of course. Frank told her he would pay for her abortion. Even though Frank was raised Catholic, being pro life wasn’t something he cared about. A woman’s right to choose and all.
And this woman would choose to get abortion, whether she wanted to or not. Sharon refused. So Frank made her life a living hell, literally. He started flaunting his extramarital affairs in her face. Then, he started slipping his mother some amphetamines here and there mixed in her morning coffee. He figured with Mabel already halfway out of her mind, maybe her chasing Sharon around the house all day would cause her to think twice about wanting to bring a child into this world.
Sharon was damned and determined to roll with the punches and have this baby, one way or another. That is until Frank served her with divorce papers. That was the final blow. She was barely in the second trimester of her pregnancy when she ended up miscarrying the baby in the shower one morning while Mabel was downstairs trying to microwave a sealed can of Dinty Moore beef stew. As usual, Frank was nowhere to be found. Probably glad handing some local crook into giving him a favor.
Sharon got sent back to Toronto with nothing, not even the jewelry or car Frank give her as consolation prizes over the years of their four year marriage. She left Buffalo with her clothes, breast implants and not much else. Frank was smart about his second marriage. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with this one that he made with Kathleen, letting her have the house and everything else. He’d made Sharon sign a pre-nuptial agreement while they were celebrating the engagement. Of course she didn’t mind signing it at the time because she was high and drunk.
And if Frank decides to meet wife number three? Well so help her God.
OliverReedsBathtub (JoelHodgson) on Chapter 3 Sun 05 Jan 2025 08:18PM UTC
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BvinYa_Raama on Chapter 13 Wed 02 Apr 2025 03:20PM UTC
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niebaumed on Chapter 13 Wed 02 Apr 2025 03:35PM UTC
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